One Moment of Greatness
by FFNovelist
Summary: A complete novelization of Final Fantasy XII. I take a lot of creative liberties.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

Long ago, in the land of Ivalice, the gods granted their favor to King Raithwall, who would oversee the subjugation of a vast territory spanning from Ordalia to Valendia. At the midpoint of his lands, he summoned forth those among his people who were noble and loyal, and forged the Galtean Alliance, through which he demonstrated compassion for his people and disdain for needless war—a philosophy passed on to his successors, and one that would bring peace and prosperity for hundreds of years to follow, thus earning him the title Dynast King. It was during this time of peace that the city-states of Landis, Archadia, and Rozarria, each members of Raithwall's alliance, took root and flourished.

Raithwall himself was gifted with two daughters, who would become the matrons of House Nabradia and House Dalmasca. To them, he granted equal portions of his land, positioned west of Archadia and east of Rozarria, south of Landis and north of the floating islands, and requested a burial at a location that his daughters should agree on, and tell no one of. This was done, but the contentment of the Alliance was diminished, for the Dynast King left three relics signifying decent from House Raithwall. Of these, the Dawn Shard was given to the Kingdom of Nabradia, and the Dusk Shard to the Kingdom of Dalmasca. The last of these relics was the Midlight Shard, which remained hidden within the Dynast King's tomb, buried with him upon his death. No parting gifts were given to the city-states—indeed, their rulers were not even told where Raithwall was laid to rest. Thus a great animosity grew, and the Alliance was forgotten.

The kingdoms lived in peace for many generations, seeing no vice-filled royals that threatened the honor of their thrones, and no conflict that could not be settled through simple diplomacy, but alas, the peace would not hold. Ordalia and Valendia soon fell to Archadia and Rozarria, and bitter battle was waged over ownership of the Republic of Landis. For many years, the two great empires struggled for dominion over Ivalice, but after the divide and fall of Landis, the Kingdoms of Dalmasca and Nabradia, which sat physically between the empires, sought an alliance—a return to their shared heritage—and found it in a marriage of convenience: Princess Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and Prince Rasler Hetos Nabradia were wed mere weeks after the final surrender of Landis—a symbol of the alliance between their countries. Both empires knew that no good would come of this for them, but it was six years before either acted on their impulses.

With the Landisian Resistance at last quelled, Archadia sought to strike before Rozarria, for neither empire had gained more land than the other in their previous competition. Nabradia's royal city of Nabudis fell to Archadia in a hail of fire, and with it Nabradia's royal family, both the current king and the future one. Unfortunately, the death of Lord Rasler was but one of many tragedies to befall Dalmasca. The body was retrieved by the exiled Landisian Captain Basch Ronsenburg and returned to the young widow for proper burial, but the air of hope that had surrounded Her Royal Highness's wedding was now quite lost, for there were no heirs, and now no Nabradia to ally with. Dalmasca, which stood at the exact geographical center of the conflict, had been set adrift, at the mercy of history's restless tides.

The invasion of Landis was but Archadia's first step in its war-fed march. With Lord Rasler's beloved homeland consumed by battle, it seemed clear that Archadia would soon mete out a like fate to the land-locked Dalmasca. The fall of the fortress at Nalbina tolled the destruction of the greater part of Dalmasca's forces, and though a counter-attack was mounted by the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca, ever brave and faithful, against the martial might of the Archadian armies, they stood little chance of victory.

Barely before the bodies strewn about Nalbina were cold, Archadia came forward, offering terms of peace—or, as one might rather put it, terms of Dalmasca's surrender. Lord Raminas, King of Dalmasca, had no choice but to accept these terms. It was thus only with reluctance that he set out for Nalbina Fortress—now under Archadian occupation—to affix his seal to the emperor's treaty of "peace." The king had scarce departed his royal city of Rabanastre when the remnants of the Order made their return. The esteemed Captain Azelas York Vossler, personal guard of Princess Ashelia, allied with Captain Ronsenburg, the former personal guard of Prince Rasler and now a legal citizen of Dalmasca, mustered the surviving troops to serve under the Order, only to destroy their country's last hope. The aim of the attack was to rescue the king, but it instead resulted in his murder. The treacherous Ronsenburg left none alive.

Pretenses of peace left by the wayside, the Archadian forces resumed their advance toward Rabanastre, finding no resistance, for the newly appointed queen, wrought with grief at her father's death, her kingdom's defeat, her friend's betrayal, and her bodyguard's disappearance, took her own life on the night before her coronation. Dalmasca's doom had been decided. To make resistance would serve no end, and so the Marquis Halim Ondore of Bhujerba, brother-in-law to the deceased king, addressed the Dalmascan citizenry:

"Sons and daughters of Dalmasca, I bid you lay down your arms; raise songs of prayer in their stead. Prayer for His Majesty, King Raminas, ever merciful—a man devoted wholly to peace. Prayer, too, for the noble Princess Ashelia, who suffered a greater pain than we could imagine. And even prayer for Captain Ronsenburg, that he may come to peace on his final night of life. But know also that they who at this late hour choose still the sword are cut of the same cloth as the captain: traitors who would lead Dalmasca to her ruin."

For high treason, incitement of sedition, the murders of twenty-one royal soldiers, and the assassination of His Royal Highness King Raminas, Basch Ronsenburg was found guilty and put to his death. But the public had little time to react to this, for the very next day their princess was laid to rest between her husband and her father. Servants stole the bedsheets she died on, still stained with the remaining poison that spilled from her cup as she collapsed, and tossed them into the crowds, where they were shredded beyond recognition. Dalmasca's surrender without terms was soon to follow.


	2. Chapter 1

_I._

Two years passed since Dalmasca's fall, and Archadian soldiers patrolling the streets of Rabanastre became less and less of an outrage. Rozarria's attacks had ceased and its forces gathered for restructuring, but this was only because Archadia now held more land and the more advantageous borders—the war was far from over. During this time of regrouping and strategizing, His Excellency Lord Gramis Solidor, Emperor of Archadia, saw his third son fit to leave the Imperial army and serve in the more peaceful position of Consul of the Royal City of Rabanastre. The citizenry had more or less settled into Archadian occupation, and were ready for a new ruler.

The city had experienced a dreadful period of mourning after the loss of the royal family, and promptly following this came a period of chaos during the initial stages of the occupation, which was soon compounded by the rowdy and muddled uprisings of the Dalmascan Resistance, then in its infancy and thus pathetically disorganized. But peace had at last regained an unstable semblance of a hold on Rabanastre. Trade within the country had steered itself back on track, though foreign dealings in commerce and all other areas remained utterly crippled. Great gleaming airships had continued their leisurely courses through the sky overhead, though no Dalmascan flag could be waved with their arrival unless accompanied by the colors of Archadia. The floating islands of Bhujerba were expected to be granted border-crossing rights with the prince's arrival, for Archadia upheld a lucrative treaty with Bhujerba, thanks to the alliance it acquired by conquering Dalmasca.

However, none knew when the prince would arrive. Indeed, most commoners remained wholly aware of the fact that he was already there in the city—and had been for quite some time—but it would not be announced until the planned date. Royal Archadian vessels had been entering Rabanastre for nearly two weeks now, all decoys to protect the prince from the Resistance and its all-too-certain assassination attempts.

But with this in mind, a great celebration had been planned for the prince's official "arrival," contributed to by several local businesses, but organized and hosted by the noble peasant Migelo, a man dearly loved by the community for his compassion toward the orphans of Archadia's war. Though widowed and now past fifty, Migelo housed and fed at least a dozen children each night, and though he was dependent on other patrons to take in the countless more that wandered the streets, never did he refuse a single one—regardless of how scarce his means may be at the time.

They repaid him in what ways they could, most often by cleaning or running errands, and thus they were all quite busy preparing for the consul's fete, scurrying about the city, picking up packages and relaying various sundries to the palace guards. The older, more competent ones worked preparing the food—and one of these was sixteen-year-old Penelo, a bright, cheerful maid known about Rabanastre's Lowtown as the orphans' guardian angel. Her role in the fall of Dalmasca was of little renown, but of great importance—the older of her two brothers, Reks, had fought alongside Captain Ronsenburg at Nalbina. In fact, it had been his testimony that convicted the captain—now referred to with disdain as the "Kingslayer." Unfortunately, Reks had died of his injuries soon after his return to Rabanastre, and now Penelo claimed only one brother—Vaan.

His reaction to Reks' death had varied greatly from her own—where she found acceptance, he found outrage; where she found peace, he found hostility. Penelo knew that Dalmasca was the past and Archadia the future, but Vaan, ever wistful and stubborn, clung to the hope of one day restoring the kingdom—a sentiment that worried her to no end. As she baked bread for the fete to come, her mind reeled over Vaan's emotions. Surly he would be disgruntled all day; he could not stand the rumors of the prince's arrival, much less the man himself. Yet her concerns seemed at first misplaced, for her brother sauntered into the kitchen that morning with a smile across his face and greeted her with all due cheer.

"Workin' hard?" he asked, reaching to poke the dough as she kneaded it.

"Yup!" She whacked his hand and he drew it back. "You should stick around. He's busy today—might have some work for you, too."

"I've got my own work to do."

She slapped the loaf on a pan and covered it with a thin sheet. "Oh, really."

"Don't give me that look…"

She smiled puckishly at his attempted tone of authority, then thrust her hand into his pocket with unstoppable speed and pulled out a handful of coins.

"Hey!" he cried, lurching after her as she leapt out of his grasp.

"You've been stealing again!" she scolded, shaking her copper-filled fist in his face. "What happens if they catch you? We need you to be there for us, Vaan. You're no good to anyone if you're locked away in some dungeon."

He slackened his posture. "Oh, what? Am I the leader now?"

"You're the oldest—they look up to you!"

"We're orphans; first thing you learn is you gotta watch out for yourself. Come on, Penelo. You know it as well as I do. Hey! What are you doing!?"

It was actually quite clear: she was counting out a portion of the money to keep before giving the rest back to him.

"I thought that this money was the people of Dalmasca's property," she droned. "The Imperials stole it from us, so it's only fair that we take it back. It's our duty as Dalmascans. Well, isn't that what you're always saying?"

"Yeah," Vaan choked, "but I never said anything about taking it back from me."

"This is for that milk you took the other day." She handed back a few coins, dropping the rest in a nearby drawer for Migelo to "find." "Just because Migelo's a softie doesn't mean you get to eat for free."

"I know," he whined. "You think I like living like this?"

"Well, it's not like you've tried to change," she said with a pout.

He groaned. "Ah, come on. Doesn't it drive you nuts thinking of some Archadian slimeball livin' it up in our royal palace?"

"It's been empty for two years now; I feel better knowing we'll have someone in charge."

"Why? Dalmasca is named after the royal family—they're the only ones who should rule it."

"And they're all dead, remember?" She began wrapping her hands with towels in preparation for removing the nearly baked loaves from the oven. "It's no excuse for you to go around town preying on Imperial soldiers."

"But it's okay for them to prey on us?" he scoffed.

"Vaan, we don't have a king anymore. Today we're getting a prince. We shouldn't complain."

"What about the Dusk Shard?"

"What about it?" A wave of heat washed over the room as she opened the oven and stooped to retrieve the steaming pan from within.

"King Raithwall gave it to this country personally," Vaan went on. "It was a gift to the royal family. Our royal family! Not Archadia's!"

"It's just a rock, Vaan. Revenge won't get you anywhere."

Before he could respond, Migelo came through the door, his arm full of empty baskets which he put down in a jumble on the nearest table.

"Penelo," he asked as he relieved the load, "how's that bread coming?"

"One batch left to go!" she answered. "Should be warm and ready for the party!"

"Perfect!" As Migelo straightened himself, he at last took notice of Vaan standing beside her and greeted him with a smile. "Ah, Vaan. How would you like to be a waiter at the fete tonight?"

Vaan smiled as well, albeit awkwardly. "Uh…pass."

"I figured as much."

"Hey, Migelo," Penelo asked, filling the baskets with fresh bread, "what do you think of the prince?"

"How can I say?" he replied with a laugh. "I've only met him once."

"Well, come on," Vaan pressed. "First impression?"

"First impressions shouldn't be counted on."

Penelo stepped in with a knowing smile. "Come on, Migelo. You know he's not gonna leave you alone until you tell him."

"What?" said Vaan gloatingly. "Is he so psychotically evil he threatened you into silence?"

"As a matter of fact," Migelo answered in nearly the same tone, "he was very cordial."

"He's Archadian," Vaan scoffed. "They're born that way."

"He even said he didn't feel right living in someone else's palace." Migelo began loading bread into the baskets as well, and Penelo cleared the counters of her baking materials, having finished the last batch of dough. "And while we were talking," Migelo went on, "little Kytes came running by with a package and crashed right into him, and you know what he did?"

"Sent him to prison?"

"He laughed. He seemed right fond of children."

Vaan smirked. "I didn't know Solidors were capable of laughter."

"Oh, keep your jokes to yourself," Migelo replied. "You've never even met him."

"But you might if you come to the fete!" Penelo chimed in.

"No way," Vaan shot back.

"Well, at least go see him," Migelo pressed. "They're all set to introduce him in a few minutes here."

"Introduce him?" asked Vaan. "Why? We all know who he is."

"Just be polite. Come on."

He took as many baskets of bread as his arms could hold and made for the door, while Penelo, after shooting a glance of warning toward her brother, followed suit. Not one to let so kind a man go without sufficient aid, Vaan took up what amounted to several pounds of rolls and headed after them, though their conversation was cut short by the roaring noise of the busy populace outside.

The city of Rabanastre sat at the center of Dalmasca's longest and widest stretch of desert, a true oasis if ever there was one. It served as a trading post of great importance, for the sands provided no other sanctuary for miles, and indeed, most who called it home seldom left, thus proving it to be a bustling place of business. Despite the arid surroundings, the city within the great stone walls flowed with water—in streams, in fountains, and in countless clusters of greenery that remained otherwise a rarity for the region. Whimsical Dalmascan architecture sprung from behind the hanging gardens, strong and imposing in the daylight, yet graceful and lax in the dark, and people glutted the cobbled plaza before the palace, raising their hands and squinting their eyes against the gleam of the shining, sun-basted rooftops.

The three peasants made their way to a nearby alley where there awaited a cart guarded by Imperials. Here they unloaded their burdens, taking up the conversation only when the soldiers retreated to the back of the alley to share a drink.

"Look on the bright side," said Migelo. "At least the emperor had the thought to put his heir in charge and not some careless politician."

"What? Are you kidding?" Vaan replied. "He's giving us to his first-born like some past-due birthday gift."

"…I thought we were getting the middle one," said Penelo.

"Really?" asked Migelo. "I thought the middle one died some time ago. I just assumed this was the youngest."

"But isn't the oldest the heir?" asked Vaan.

"Hm." Migelo stroked his beard in contemplation. "Maybe it was the oldest who died…that would work."

"I thought two of them died," said Penelo. "Isn't that why the empress…you know…" She drew her finger across her throat as respectfully as she could.

"…I think you're right," Migelo added after another moment's thought. "I think this is the only one left."

"Wait," she replied. "I think you're right, too. He's the baby. That was like, his first year in the army, when they died."

"Okay, okay," Vaan interceded. "Sorry I brought it up. I guess I can handle him living in our palace, but, seriously…do we really have to throw a party for him?"

"We don't exactly have a choice, Vaan," Migelo said calmly.

"And you're happy about it?" Vaan asked at his lack of emotion.

"I suppose so. After all, _that_ is a choice. Now why don't you two get going? I can take it from here."

Vaan swallowed a groan, but Penelo spoke for him. "Okay."

Yet, as they turned, they found that the guards had changed shifts, and one of the new ones stepped forward as they approached the exit of the alley.

"Runnin' a little late, aren't we?"

"Oh, you'll have to forgive them," said Migelo. "I had them working on His Excellency's feast and just lost track of the time."

"Uh, no disrespect!" Penelo twittered with a quavering smile.

"Well, hurry up and get in there, then," said the guard.

"Thanks!" she replied, ducking in while dragging Vaan at her heels.

"Let me know how it goes, kids!" Migelo shouted as they disappeared into the crowd.

"We will!" Vaan yelled back.

The two pressed themselves into a comfortable niche among the spectators and struggled to adjust their eyes to the glare of the sun overhead. Noon quickly approached, leaving the sun just slightly behind the great palace, accenting its elegant arches and peaks, shedding a truly royal glow over the entire grounds in a painfully bright depiction of Dalmasca's former glory. Archadian politicians and nobles lined the steps leading to the palace gate, their prim and proper dress in deep contrast the laidback desert attire of the citizenry, and their arrogant expressions serving only to begrudge the onlookers on a far more personal level than the occasion otherwise demanded.

Several high-ranking soldiers kept the Archadian diplomats out of the crowd's reach, and four armored figures kept close watch in all directions, flanking a well-dressed man with a war-hardened countenance who Vaan could only assume was the new Consul. Though the exact titles and positions of all the others assembled on the palace steps eluded him, he did recognize Lord Gregoroth, the chairman of the Archadian Senate, and several others who appeared to be Senators or perhaps representatives of the war council as well. Vaan had heard that Archadia's government maintained a limited system of checks and balances, but he had never taken such things seriously in light of the emperor's seemingly total control. Seeing that Emperor Gramis had at least sent someone to oversee his son's behavior served as a small comfort, though it remained quite clear that after the fete most of the distinguished guests would return the capital city of Archades—back to _civilization_, by their own views.

At last an Archadian man approached the podium and began to eloquently describe the events leading up to the consul's appointment. He did not mention that Archadia started the war—only that Archadia ceased its hostilities when the king was murdered and, apparently out of pity and with hopes of providing solace and security, offered Dalmasca "generous" peace terms. It was enough to induce a rage comparable to that with which the war had been fought, but the citizens of Rabanastre listened with exceptional behavior—for a few minutes.

Vaan and Penelo watched motionlessly as the prince gazed out at his domain, utterly saddened by the sight of the ruined populace. The mob appeared to hold disgruntled solidarity about its individual members: all relieved to have some sign of normalcy return to their city, but at the same time all annoyed to be placed under the rule of a foreigner—of a man who held his position only because of his blood. They whispered and sneered, and the prince seemed to at first just try to ignore it, but it clearly wore on him as the minutes marched on. He was undeniably hansom—lean and tall, with thick black hair and murky brown eyes—but the troubled look on his face lent a grave shadow to his expression, almost sinister in nature. He looked bored, surveying the ocean of people with passing interest and clenching his jaw as though it physically pained him to put up with the ceremony.

Glancing downward, Vaan noticed that Penelo's eyes seemed to frantically dart from sight to sight, searching for anything besides the consul to rest on. Her right hand nervously rubbed her left forearm, and her knees pressed together as though she had no room to move. Vaan hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder.

"…You okay?" he asked.

"Can we go now?" she replied.

"What? They just started!"

"I don't like this," she whined. "He's a prince. His father had Reks killed."

"This morning you liked him."

She laughed unevenly and shook her head. "Oh, what's wrong with me?"

"It's gonna be alright," Vaan assured her, though he felt all too sharply the growing animosity that cloaked them.

As the man at the podium attempted to introduce the prince, the crowd began to sway with anger, and cries of rebellion and disrespect rang out.

"Order!" the man shouted. "We will have order!"

None came until the armed soldiers surrounding the crowd stepped inward, subtly pressing the civilians together. The man at the podium grinned smugly at the looks of fear that spread over the audience, and at last continued on: "I give you your new consul: His Imperial Highness Lord Vayne Carudas Solidor, son and heir of Emperor Gramis, and commandant of Archadia's western—Your Excellency?"

A unified gasp surged through the crowd, briefly silencing their fearful groans and taunts, for their consul had shaken his head in dismay and pushed the announcer away from the podium, instead taking to it himself.

"People of Rabanastre! Is it with hatred you look upon your consul? With hatred you look upon the Empire?" He was answered with shouts of distain and a few flying vegetables. "There was little point in asking," he muttered. "But know this: I harbor no idle hopes of frustrating that hatred, nor shall I ask your fealty—that is the due of your fallen king, and rightly so. King Raminas loved his people. He strove to bring you peace. His was a rule worthy of your devotion. Even now he remains among you, protecting you; his ardor for the peace and will of Dalmasca falters not. I will not ask for your forgiveness for what Dalmasca has befallen at the hands of my father, for I know I am undeserving, and were I in your position, I surely could not grant it so easily. Nor will I ask for your respect, for I understand that it must be earned, and simply being born to a royal house is not nearly enough. I ask only that you do your king honor. Together, let us embrace the peace His Majesty would surely desire. Two years now divide us from war's bitter end, yet still its shadow looms over all, stifling the infant peace—a chain only you may cast off. Achieve but this one thing, and your hatred of me and of the Empire will grieve me not. I will stand fast. I will endure your hatred, suffer your slings and arrows. I will defend Dalmasca. Here I will pay my debt—I swear it now. Though Lord Raminas and Lady Ashelia be gone, they stand ever at the side of their people. In honoring peace, you do honor to their memory and to Dalmasca. What I ask, I ask plain. My hopes now rest with you."

He bowed—the most formal of Archadian dismissals—and calmly walked away, his four armored bodyguards close behind. The nobles and diplomats assembled on the stairwell shifted uncomfortably and gradually followed him past the palace gate, and then—very slowly—a few claps sounded, dull and uncertain, but nevertheless present and audible. A few others joined in, and soon the whole crowd haphazardly applauded with muffled, paranoid approval.

As they dispersed, Vaan surveyed the audience carefully, for he knew that the Dalmascan Resistance watched the prince with unwavering eyes, its members hidden in all corners of the city. Then again, perhaps he knew nothing. The Resistance had been silent in the weeks leading up to this day—no cryptic messages posted about town, no cloaked figures walking the streets at night. With the city's heightened security, Vaan wondered if they had moved elsewhere to plan Vayne's demise. Or if perchance they simply accepted the consul; indeed, he seemed a decent leader.

Putting the thought from his mind, Vaan turned to his sister. "Well, not as bad as it could have been, I guess."

"Yeah," she answered. "You should come tonight."

"And serve booze to all the high-rollers? I don't think so."

"They're just trying to rebuild Dalmasca," she huffed.

"For their own use," he shot back. "Geez, Penelo, even you're afraid of him!"

"He's Archadian; I can't help it. He seems nice."

"Nice? Penelo, he's only getting this job because his father had the king killed!"

She shook her head, her yellow braids waving a bit against her shoulders. "Can't you just accept it and settle down?"

"No! As long as we're being pushed around by the Archadians, Reks died for nothing. I'm not 'settling down' until there's a real Dalmascan back on the throne."

"And until then, you'll just keep picking Imperial pockets?"

He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from rolling them, and attempted to soften his tone. "Penelo, you know we need money…"

"What for? We've got a good home, we eat well enough." Seeing that he avoided meeting her eyes, she stepped up close before him. "Face it Vaan: the only reason you keep stealing is so you can make it big and leave us all behind!"

"What!?" he drew back. "Where did that come from?"

"This isn't Dalmasca anymore," she continued, her voice lowering with exhaustion. "It's Archadia, and everybody knows how much you hate Archadia. You can't wait to get out of here. I know it."

"Hey, I'm not goin' anywhere without you. If I ever make it big, I'm havin' a fete for all of us! We'll eat until our heads spin, then dance until we're hungry again!"

"Vaan…" Now she turned her eyes down, suddenly regretting having brought it up.

"I mean it," he told her. "I'm not gonna leave you."

"Maybe not willingly, but if you keep this up…"

"Penelo, I'm sorry. Look, if it means that much to you—"

"What? You'll stop?" she forced eye-contact, searching her voice for strength. "You've said that before. Then some soldier gets on your nerves and next thing I know a whole troop of them are looking for you."

"I can't help it."

"I know. Come on, you've never been able to stay out of trouble. You and Reks were always like that. I just wish you'd try and do something with yourself, you know? I don't want you to be wasted like he was."

"But what can I do?" he asked. "There aren't any jobs around here—not with all the Archadians around to fill them."

"You just have to do what you can. Migelo's always willing to help—you know that."

"And we're back to the fete?" He shook his head. "I told you…"

"I heard you. But we all have to start somewhere. Vaan…please come tonight. It's been too long since we've done something together."

He smiled weakly, unable to stand letting her down again. "…I'll think about it."

She nodded with a stiff expression, as if to say "I _knew_ it," and turned to leave with a subdued sigh.

He, too, took stride in the opposite direction, but could not escape the knowledge that she was—as usual—right. And yet his own feelings seemed to justify themselves as he walked about the streets of his dear hometown, for although business bustled and locals went happily about their daily lives, he could not force himself to overlook the way the city's spirit withered, heaving with its last reserve of strength to resist Archadia's consuming might. Before long, all of Dalmasca would be swallowed whole, and no amount of optimism could draw his ever vigilant attention from this. Not for the first time, he considered joining the Resistance, but this urge quickly dissipated as he reminded himself that he hadn't the foggiest idea how to go about such a thing, and that Penelo had already lost one brother to Archadia's war, and for all her buoyancy could not stand to lose another.

Still, he was overcome by his growing need to make himself useful—indeed, it ached to be so powerless—and the sadness that cast its shadow over his memory of his homeland seemed to grow ever stronger as he continued on with his sulking. And then suddenly, he was stricken with an idea: Old Dalan, the local crazy homeless guy. The man had a reputation for knowing all that occurred within the city walls, as well as a good deal of what occurred without, and would undoubtedly have some way of putting Vaan's fervor to effective use—without sending him to throw his lot in with violence-ridden rebels. Deciding it was worth a try, the boy headed to the south alley, Dalan's usual territory.

He found the old man right where he always sat—amid the garbage cans and empty crates stored in the alley for pick up at the end of each week. A flock of young children sat at his feet, questioning him on matters of magic and fairytales, and he answered with extravagant gestures and the harpy pronunciation of his homeland. The Bhujerban accent was a thick one—difficult to understand, and tempting to imitate—not at all like the precise Dalmascan or pillowy Archadian that filled the streets of Rabanastre. Everything the old man said came across as exotic, even when he had a few pints under his belt, and, naturally, he was held in fond regard by the youth of Rabanastre. Vaan and Penelo had both grown up listening to his unworldly tales, as had Reks, before joining the army. Vaan had written him off as he grew older, thinking himself too mature for such trifles, but as he listened to him speak of the Viera, the fabled rabbit-human hybrids that supposedly dwelled at the far end of Ivalice, he couldn't help but smile.

"Ah, look here, wee ones," Dalan said as he noticed Vaan approaching. "How long has it been since this vandal paid me a visit?"

"Hey," Vaan defended. "I've been busy."

"And what do I always say?" Dalan asked the children.

"If you're busy," one little boy stated proudly, "you're working too hard."

Vaan groaned.

"Very good, lad!" the old man cheered. "I'll make something of you yet!"

"Hey, Dalan?" asked a girl beside him. "Do you know if the consul's married?"

"What? Now why would you want to know that?"

"I wanna make something of myself!"

"Gah!" Old Dalan threw his arms up in surrender. "Be off with off you! Little street rats!"

They all scampered away giggling, leaving Vaan to make his inquiries in peace.

"Kids just aren't what they used to be, are they?" he asked with a sly smirk.

"You're one to talk!" Dalan snapped. "Now what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off robbing someone?"

"Hey, hey, it's not robbing if they're Imperials."

"Good point."

"But anyway, I need some—advice, I guess. Just some stuff no one seems to know about, and I figured you'd be able to…"

"Sonny, in case you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have all the time in the world. Hurry up and ask, if that's what you've come to do!"

"Uh, right. Well…okay, first of all: which prince did we get?"

"The only one left, of course! Vayne, the youngest. Why does everybody keep asking me that?"

"It's just confusing—you know, hard to keep track of who's dead and who's alive these days."

"That it is, my boy. Now I do hope you've something else on your mind—I don't think I can bear to hear another word about the consul."

"Right. I, uh…I was wondering if maybe you knew of a way I could, like…help the Resistance. You know, without actually joining. Or dying."

"Ah, yes, the Resistance. You'd best not associate yourself with that herd—not after what befell your brother."

"Yeah, but Rabanastre's almost gone. I mean, it's not even Rabanastre anymore. I wanna help."

"Hmm. I see. Perhaps I may be able to help you."

"Really?"

"Well, it would be dangerous, of course, but if you think you can do it…"

"Do what?"

"It's just a favor, really, to the people of Dalmasca. The Resistance would not be involved."

"Just spit it out."

"On the third floor of the palace, right at the center, there is a hidden chamber that holds the royal jewels…"

"Hey, I'm not robbing my own country!"

"No, no, of course you aren't. You are reclaiming it for Dalmasca. This is not an endeavor of profit; it is one of pride. In the royal treasury you will also find the Dusk Shard. If you do not steal it, it will fall into the hands of the Empire."

"The Dusk Shard? That's where it is?"

"Yes, indeed! You must rescue it—there is no other thief so cunning that I would trust with such a secret, you see. We may no longer have a nation, but we will at least retain our national treasure!"

Vaan laughed. "Yeah, sounds fair enough. So how do I get to it?"

"Ah, don't worry. It is really quite simple: you must first convince Migelo to let you serve at the fete, and once you are in the palace, make your way to the third floor. Now there are many staircases that will get you there, but it matters little which you take. The hallways are all connected, and sooner or later you will find a painting of a black chocobo on the wall. Turn this painting upside down, then go to the windowsill across from it and push in the center stone. The floor will open for you, and inside you will find the Dusk Shard."

"That easy?"

"Indeed it is! You will do it, won't you?"

"Yeah, of course. I mean, it's not like Vayne needs it anyway, right? Archadia's richer than all the rest of Ivalice combined."

"Yes, yes, enough chit-chat. Go to Migelo. Make Dalmasca proud!"

"Right!"

"And be sure and check back in with me once you get hold of it!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

He hurried back to Migelo's shop, where sure enough he found the old man gathering up another load of food, and eagerly made his change of heart known. Migelo was instantly pleased, though Penelo displayed a bit of suspicion, but Vaan quickly put forth a convincing act of interest in the matter and earned enough of her trust to throw off her vigilance, and by dusk he had donned the far-too-stuffy Archadian-style uniform that palace servants would be issued from that day on, and had been welcomed into the royal court.

Even given his immovable hatred for the Archadians, Vaan had to admit that they knew how to throw a party. The great banquet hall of the palace had been decked for the occasion with desert flowers by the bushel, seemingly miles of ribbon, and food as far as the eye could see, and the elegant marble fountain in the courtyard overlooked by the windows shot water sky high, each droplet brilliantly illuminated by glowing magicite of varying colors. Fireworks lit the sky like flaming lace and even the halls closed off to the guests echoed with merriment and drunkenness—indeed, Vaan had never seen so much alcohol in one place at one time—and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the dancing, for the floor filled quickly once the music played, guests dancing in pairs and in groups, laughing wildly and falling down quite a bit without embarrassment.

Vayne refrained from the more uncultivated activities, but behaved in a friendly manner toward everyone present, even going so far as to thank the servers, though Vaan did not dare to near him and only heard of this courtesy from Penelo. From a distance he did spy Migelo chatting with the prince, apparently with great joy, for neither displayed any formal gestures and both seemed to be laughing quite loosely. Three of the four armored soldiers that had guarded Vayne that afternoon had scattered, with one sticking close to his side throughout the evening while the others monitored the entrances and generally just looked scary.

In the kitchen, cooks scurried about putting the final touches on ornate h'orderves and whipping up new ones at unbelievable speed. Vaan made several trips, filling his tray and walking about the ballroom for no more than fifteen minutes before returning to refill it, but Penelo managed to pull him aside near midnight.

"Having fun?" she asked, daintily picking a triangular white cake from the center of his tray and licking the icing off it.

"It's alright."

"Alright? I've never seen this much chaos!" She laughed and shoved the cake into her mouth, beaming at the taste.

"No kidding," Vaan answered, unable to restrain his smile. "I guess when they act so stuck up all the time they learn how to take their parties pretty seriously."

"Too bad the consul isn't going nuts with them."

"Yeah. That guy needs to loosen up."

Suddenly one of Penelo's girlfriends stepped in: "Oh, you're just jealous 'cause Prince Vayne is a dreamboat and you're the paddle."

"Hey!" Penelo retorted with a giggle. "Watch what you say about my brother! He's a sail, at least!"

"You're damn right!" said Vaan.

Penelo's friend—Vaan couldn't recall her name—helped herself to one of the creampuffs on his tray and continued: "I heard he's got a girlfriend coming."

"Whoa, really?" asked Penelo.

"Yup. Those guys in the armor—they were saying he wouldn't enjoy himself until the Eighth Fleet got here. Didn't get a name, but it's someone special!"

"Sweet!" said Vaan. "Maybe he'll throw another party."

Both girls reached for his tray, but he held it aloft out of their reach and gave them a mocking look. "Ah! These are for the high-horses." They wrinkled their noses, but he simply headed for the door to the ballroom. "See you later!"

Of course, he had no intention of serving the Archadians any longer. He wound his way through the crowds, losing most of his h'orderves in the process, and then—keeping a wary eye on the soldiers—he strolled confidently into the secluded stairwell in the far corner of the hall. If anyone of importance spotted him, his uniform served as a good enough excuse to think nothing of him entering closed off portions of the area. Once safely out of sight, he eagerly devoured the left-over pastries on his tray, then began climbing stairs.

He reached the third floor in due time, though the echoes of the palace did little to soothe his jumping nerves. The halls seemed to bulge with misery—with the ghosts of their former inhabitants. Every shadow appeared an image of the murdered king, every sound a sob of the listless princess. These illusions proved themselves all-too accurate when Vaan at last located the portrait of the black chocobo that Old Dalan had spoken of, for in the painting there stood not only a bird, but the young princess as well, no more than seven, by the looks of it, smiling brightly, eyes wide, hair tied up in a bow. She hugged the bird's neck—it was merely a hatchling—and leaned her head against its feathers, just as any child embracing any pet. Nevermind the pure pedigree both possessed—these were children, curious of all the intricacies of life and utterly in love with the world.

Seeing the painting only further instilled in Vaan the desire to fight for his country, and after taking a moment to admire it, he tipped it upside down, noting that it seemed to be hung on a hinge of some sort. After doing this to his satisfaction, he turned to the nearest window and pressed down on the center stone, at first receiving no reaction, but then pounding it a few times until it sunk down. One of the large marble tiles in the floor shook from its place and lowered, then slid down beneath its neighbor, revealing a ladder that granted passage to a dimly lit chamber below. Taking one last look at the painting, Vaan descended into the glowing haze.

At the bottom he found a wide and winding room, filled with treasures and artifacts, and lit by faintly glowing stones—magicite, as it was called. Paintings lined the walls—portraits of kings and queens, princes and princesses—and boxes upon boxes of jewels cluttered the floor, some loose and some crafted into bracelets or necklaces or any other manner of thing. So, too, were there sacks of coins about the room, and statues, and ribbon-bound bundles of letters, as well as countless other oddities clearly prized by the royal family, if not by society in general.

The Dusk Shard, a dark rock that seemed cut of a larger host, sat on a velvet cushion of rich blue, boxed in spotless glass and held high on a silver pedestal. Vaan looked it over suspiciously, expecting a trap or alarm of some kind, though Dalan had not mentioned any such thing. It appeared safe, but his awe held him in reverent hesitance for a moment more. When he finally did dare to lift the glass case, his relief at detecting no trouble overcame him, and he at last took up the stone and replaced the glass, though he struggled in vain to determine the rock's color in the low light. It seemed black, and nothing more.

"Quite a performance."

Vaan turned suddenly upon hearing the distinctively Archadian voice. Behind him, leaning coolly against the back wall of the chamber and staring at him with a deer-like gaze of criticism was a tall and rather imposing man of no more than twenty-five, if even that. Instinctively thinking the worst, Vaan made mental note of his sword. He wasn't exactly an expert on fencing, but Reks had taught him a thing or two.

"Who are you?" he demanded, cursing the tremor in his voice.

The Archadian man tilted his head cockily. "I'd think that would be the least of your concerns."

"Don't mess with me."

"Alright. Let's put it this way: if all the world is truly a stage, I'm the leading man. Now why don't you just hand over the rock so I won't have to hurt you?"

Without thinking, Vaan let his hand dart to the hilt of his sword. He stopped short of drawing it, though, for his conscious mind quickly caught up and realized that the Archadian was armed as well. "No way!" Vaan growled. "I'm taking this back for Dalmasca—it's mine!"

"Yes," the Archadian replied with a smile. "And once I take it from you, it'll be mine."

"Haven't you taken enough from us? This is all my country has left—I'm not just giving it up to some Archadian riffraff!"

"Well, then how about some Viera riffraff?"

Vaan shot him a look of confusion, but soon realized his meaning. Delicate footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by minute scratching sounds, and before he could gain his wits enough to draw his sword, a tall beautiful woman approached him, cutting off his only escape. But this was no ordinary woman—she was a Viera, a member of the vicious rabbit race that dwelled in the Golmore Jungle at the roots of holy Mount Bur-Omisace. They were all but mythical, for any who dared to enter the jungle were killed, and their corpses tossed out beyond the trees, as warnings, it seemed, or possibly just as a means of sanitation. But here stood a prime specimen—dressed all in black, unnaturally thin, practically glowing in the dim light with smooth mocha-toned skin and silvery white hair, both with a pearl-like sheen, and most notably, a pair of tall slender ears, coated with silky white fur and tipped in black. Vaan was speechless.

"Meet my leading lady," the Archadian explained eloquently. "Francesca here is quite impatient when it comes to humans—and she has a particular distaste for those of the male persuasion."

The Viera strode airily toward Vaan, forcing him back until he was at the Archadian's side.

"You don't seem too worried," the boy stammered, noting that neither of them fit her preferred profile.

"I'm not withholding her prey," the Archadian smoothly quipped.

She came to a halt before them and glared at Vaan intently. "Don't make this difficult."

Vaan paused, surreptitiously surveying the room for any manner of exit. Finally, it dawned on him: "You're, uh…you're not the prince's guards, are you?"

The Archadian rolled his eyes, and the Viera slowly began to draw her sword. In a bit of a panic, Vaan jumped back against a large statue beside him, knocking it over with a horrendous clank and sending metallic shudders through several other treasures as well. A few shouts followed—the guards down the hall had been alerted—and the two thieves briefly readied themselves for an ambush. Only too late did they realize that Vaan had scampered away with the Dusk Shard, leaving the dust of the ladder rungs to settle in his wake.

"Exit stage right," said the Archadian, rather impressed.

"The gods do not smile on us," Francesca replied.

"I like it better that way."

Vaan made it down the hall and one set of stairs, but upon turning to make his way to the ground floor, he spied several frantic soldiers heading for the same staircase, and thus changed his course. After scampering wildly through countless rooms of various use, he at last came upon a bedroom equipped with an ornate balcony and thoughtlessly vaulted the railing. From his new vantage point, a bridge became visible a few yards away, and he quickly swung out against the smooth stone walls of the palace, balancing precariously on the first floor gutter. The thieves soon enough arrived at the same balcony, but did not at first appear willing to risk the climb to the bridge below.

"Come on, kid!" the Archadian called. "Just hand it over and we'll leave you alone."

"Yeah, right!" Vaan scoffed, and yet in an instant the ground gave a violent shake, and in his attempt to regain his grip on the wall, he dropped the Dusk Shard down onto the very bridge he sought to escape to. Before anyone could curse aloud at the mishap, the palace shook again. "What the hell…?" Vaan clung to the wall desperately, and the thieves shifted their eyes upwards as an enormous airship floated overhead.

"The _Ifrit_, eh?" said the Archadian. "Impeccable timing, Vayne."

"He saw us coming?" the Viera questioned.

"No…" He leaned over the artfully curled railing that guarded the edge of the balcony. "He saw _them_ coming." Vaan followed his gaze and let out a laugh. Chaos spread below them in a hail of roaring fire and clashing steel, all thanks to the Dalmascan Resistance and its bold attempt at a sneak attack. Although Vaan couldn't help but feel somewhat useless knowing that his infiltration of the palace had only been possible because the guards had their hands so full, it made the venture even more enthralling to feel as though he was actually aiding the Resistance. Unfortunately, however, things didn't appear to be going well for either side, for while Vaan competed with the two thieves, the Resistance suffered an indomitable onslaught at the hands of Vayne's security, which had full control of Rabanastre's air brigade.

Seeing his chance to flee, Vaan dropped his hands to the positions his feet once held, and from there dropped down onto the bridge, gleaning a shout from the Archadian thief.

"Hey! Get back here!"

Vaan seized the Dusk Shard once more and took off running toward a large pair of doors south of his landing spot. The thieves quickly scaled the wall and dropped down onto the bridge as well, giving chase as soon as they hit the cobblestones.

The great doors at the southern end of the bridge had been securely locked amid the chaos, and Vaan faltered for only a moment before turning to the side in search of another escape route. There stood a low wall along the edges of the bridge, carved of blue-tinged stone, and Vaan found it easy to vault, though the nearest platform—the roof of an ornate gazebo below—proved quite a daunting distance to fall. The thieves arrived soon enough, but didn't dare strike with Vaan and their prize so near to the precarious edge.

The Archadian cautiously stepped forward. "Come here…"

Vaan mirrored the step backwards, setting his heel on the rim of the wall. "Shut up!"

"No, really," the thief coaxed, his eyes turning frantic. "Come here."

"…What?" Vaan apprehensively followed his worried gaze and found one of the fleet's smaller crafts preparing to launch a missile at the gazebo below. Rendered silent and motionless by his own panic, he could barely hear the Archadian thief curse before the strike landed its mark with a roar of fire and a hail of crumbled stone.

When next he opened his eyes, he found himself dangling from the nearly obliterated bridge side, his right hand clutching the Dusk Shard while his left remained caught in the desperate grip of the thief, who now lied face down on the jagged edge.

"Let go of me!" Vaan cried.

"Keep this up and I will!" the thief threatened in return.

"Pull me up!"

"Give me the magicite!"

"Pull me up first!"

"Oh." He turned his eyes from Vaan to the incoming strike behind him. "Not good."

This attack hit a fair distance from them, but nevertheless dealt massive damage to the bridge, robbing the Archadian of his fragile hold on the floor and causing him to slip down along with Vaan. And yet, once again, when Vaan opened his eyes, he was not dead. Francesca now sat carefully on the ruined bridge holding tight to the thief's legs.

The thief glanced behind him in mild awe, but seemed only slightly impressed by the feat. "Nice catch."

She paused, looking over her position with uncertainty. "Um…"

"Fran, this is no time for propriety!"

Abandoning her hesitance, Francesca roughly took hold of her partner's hips and yanked him back into her lap. Vaan stumbled a bit in a vain attempt to gain his footing and flee, and quickly wound up with his feet in the air and his head between the thief's legs, prompting them both to grimace. The thief held the quicker wit, however, and clamped his thighs around Vaan's neck, leaving him clumsy and helpless while Fran got to her feet and wrested the stone from him. The two then took off running, leaving Vaan sprawled on the cobblestone walkway recovering from the kick to the stomach that had temporarily disabled him. Yet even this proved ill-fated, for his enemies were soon running toward him again, a small squadron of soldiers fast at their heels.

Vaan feigned unconsciousness until the mob had passed, deciding to let the fight pan out without him, and was simultaneously impressed and depressed by the outcome. The thieves led the guards to a secluded corner of the palace courtyard and split up, Francesca hopping effortlessly onto the balcony while her companion ran straight into a wall only to mount it with a single step, flip over the soldiers' heads, and land at their backs with sword drawn. Fran picked two of them off with arrows before seeing that her partner would need more assistance, and then resorted to kicking open a gutter-stop, dowsing the area below with mud. She then joined the fencing fight and the two easily dismantled the remaining half-blinded soldiers.

The victory was short-lived, for Vaan seized his opportunity as soon as it was upon him, tackling Francesca and knocking the gem right out of its hiding place within her cleavage. Her fellow thief took strong offense to this and threw Vaan to the side, but luckily all three were too concerned with retrieving their prize from the mud to draw weapons on each other. Unfortunately, the task at hand proved far more difficult than time would allow, and no sooner did Vaan recover the stone did two more Archadian squads appear—one on the ground to corner the thieves and one on the balcony to ensnare them. Also on the balcony stood Rabanastre's new consul, a sword held loosely in his hand and an angrily bewildered expression set on his face.

"Curtain call," the male thief groaned, wiping a bit of mud out of his eyes.

Vaan sighed, but took advantage of his position—crouched down with his back to the ground squad—and tucked the stone safely away in his inner vest pocket.

As they were shackled and led into the courtyard, they discovered that the Resistance now faced the same doom. Much to his dismay, Vaan's eyes widened as a child's at the revelation of those who aided the Resistance: merchants, gardeners, carpenters—ordinary Dalmascans and soldiers alike, all side-by-side in defense of their royal palace. Even those whom Vaan had always thought most polite to the Archadians stood bound at sword point. However, this did little to diminish his shame, for he had not fought alongside them; he had crept about in the shadows while they distracted the guards—true, he had their will, but he still lacked their bravery.

The thieves at his side walked proudly, heads held high even in their failure.

"It seems you were right," Fran whispered, nodding her chin toward the Resistance members. "…For once."

Rather than acknowledge her remark, the Archadian turned to Vayne with glib contempt. "Lord Vayne, I must congratulate you on a job well done."

"Whatever do you mean?" the consul asked, eyes focused straight ahead.

"Used yourself as the bait, then called out the air brigade. Quite clever."

"Forgive me for not being flattered."

"Wait just a moment!" They came to a halt amidst the crowd of prisoners. "We're not with the insurgence!"

"_Resistance_," a nearby woman corrected him before addressing the consul in a stony tone. "These street rats are not in league with us—you insult us to assume they are!"

"My insulting assumptions are the least of your worries," Vayne said calmly.

"Look, _Your Excellency_," she growled. "We are prisoners of war; we refuse to be treated like common thieves!"

"Better than common assassins," the thief mumbled as he was shoved beside her.

"And who, may I ask, are you to make such demands?" the consul inquired, ignoring the comment.

"My name is Amalia," the woman answered. "I led tonight's attack. Our goal was not to kill you, but only to remove you from power."

Vayne smirked almost politely. "I'm afraid the two go hand-in-hand, My Lady."

"Vaan!" All heads turned immediately to see Penelo pushing her way through the crowd. "Vaan! Let him go! He's not one of them!"

"Penelo!" Vaan called. "I'm sorry. Looks like that dinner'll have to wait."

She ducked under two guards and dashed up to him. "Vaan, tell them you didn't know what you were doing!"

Vayne caught hold of Penelo by the shoulders and held her away from Vaan, unintentionally stirring his emotions.

"Hey! Let her go!"

His struggles were easily misconstrued and ended by a hard blow to the back of the head. He collapsed unconscious, eliciting gasps from the crowd and a shriek from Penelo, and the thief quickly dropped to his knees beside the boy and attempted to rouse him.

"What's wrong with you!? He's just a kid!"

"This is exactly the type of government that we oppose," Amalia growled.

"Check him," Vayne ordered with a concerned nod.

The guards obediently pulled the thief to his feet and inspected Vaan's vitals. Penelo had begun to choke back tears.

"He'll be alright," one of the soldiers reported.

"How can he be alright!?" Penelo cried, pushing Vayne back a step. "You're taking him away, aren't you? We'll never see each other again!"

The thief once again stepped out of place and tossed his arms over Penelo's head, pulling her close and letting his bound wrists rest at her waist. "Don't fret, darling! You'll always have me."

"Pervert!" Without hesitation, she slapped him, ducked out of his arms, kicked him in the shin, and ran off sobbing.

"Famran," said Vayne, gesturing to Vaan, "would you care to join your friend there?"

"Friend?" quipped the thief.

"Now _that_ type of government we have no quarrel with," Amalia groaned.

"Oh, you're just jealous. Hey—"

The thief was promptly gagged, much to the relief of all present. Fran couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Alright," Vayne concluded with an exhausted sigh. "Place the insurgents in holding until they can be properly questioned, and take these three to Nalbina."


	3. Chapter 2

II

_II._

Vaan knew he was verging on consciousness when voices permeated the darkness—he always dreamed just before he woke. He recognized this dream as one of the less welcome ones, however, and mentally struggled as he always did to banish it before it began, though he knew very well that his attempts would fail. No matter how he fought against the memories of his brother's final days, they never passed completely from his sleeping vision, and he remained eternally grateful that Penelo had been protected from such things, although he knew she often wished she could have been there.

Vaan had been asked to leave the royal infirmary when the mourning princess came to speak with Reks, but he later heard of the conversation that had taken place without him. Her Highness had merely wanted clarification—to see if the young soldier could indeed be trusted, or if he was at the very least lucid enough to remember the horrors he had witnessed with complete accuracy. He had been—had gently informed her that he had seen, beyond all doubt, her deceased husband's most trusted knight murder her father and all who strove to protect him. This did not help to subdue her sorrow, but only served to intensify it so that she left the room in tears, and Reks had asked Vaan to give her his apologies. Vaan told him that he had, though he had never been allowed within speaking distance of her. Reks had always been the type to succumb to the slightest quantities of guilt, after all.

But the truth was the truth, even if Reks did feel himself to be at fault. Vaan could see well enough from the mortal gash in his brother's side that he had spoken honestly, and when the infection finally claimed him, he tried to comfort Penelo with the suggestion that he had not died in vain, for his testimony had brought justice upon a royal assassin. It hadn't worked, he knew, but he could still recall Reks telling him at their mother's burial that without parents, they would have to raise Penelo themselves, and though Vaan had only fleeting memories of their father, he knew with all faith that he would have told her the same thing and not allowed doubt to plague him for it.

Slowly, Vaan's dream drifted from the darker times to the lighter—to the days before Reks enlisted, before stealing became a necessity. He could remember his brother's encouragement, his sister's laughter, and then…unfortunately, the familiar Dalmascan accent of his dreams slowly gave way to the prim and proper Archadian accent of his nightmares, and he feebly opened his eyes to see the thief standing over him.

"Welcome back."

"Huh?" He rubbed his head, only to draw back his hand with a wince of pain upon discovering the throbbing knot left on his skull.

"You've been asleep for nearly three hours," the thief explained. "They didn't hit you _that _hard."

"You…"

"Me."

Sitting up urgently despite the rush of blood to his brain, Vaan began to rummage through his pockets in search of the missing Dusk Shard. "…You…What…Wh—what did you do with it!?"

"Easy there. I didn't do anything with it. It was confiscated—along with everything else."

"No…"

"Standard procedure. Haven't you ever been arrested before?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't!" Vaan growled, struggling to get to his feet. "Where are we, anyway? Is this Archadia?"

"Nalbina," the thief corrected. "It's not even a proper dungeon—they just sealed off the bottom level of the fortress, cheap bastards."

Vaan held his head, fruitlessly willing it to cease its thrumming beat. "Oh, man…This is bad…"

"What did you expect?" the Archadian asked dryly. "It's not like you haven't earned it."

"Hey! I'm no thief, alright!? I only took what belonged to me in the first place, and I'd have it by now if you hadn't gotten me caught!"

"Oh, _I_ got _you_ caught!? I'd been planning that heist for weeks, and you ruined it in a matter of minutes."

"What did you want with the Dusk Shard, anyway? That place was loaded!"

The thief folded his arms, copper-colored eyes alight with golden flecks. "It's a little late to be asking questions, don't you think?"

"Hey, it doesn't even have any meaning to you. I had a lot riding on it."

"Aw, afraid of disappointing your girl?"

"Oh, God!" Vaan exclaimed in disgust. "She's not my girl!"

"Well, what is she, then?"

"None of your damn business!" Suddenly, he was stricken with an odd dizziness he had never before experienced and nearly collapsed. With a groan, he braced himself against the nearest wall, cradling his head in his free hand and clenching his eyes shut.

"Alright, alright," the thief conceded. "Take it easy. There's not a lot of water around here, but I could—"

"Just leave me alone."

"Alone? Down here?"

"Why do you care so much?" Vaan asked, his head clearing though he still remained weakened.

The Archadian put a fist on his hip, regarding the boy with obliging if not somewhat disinterested concern. "You're not too familiar with pirating are you? It's the Law of Exchange—kind of the opposite of revenge. I got you into this, so I have to get you out."

He blinked. "…Out?"

"Fran's sniffing out our escape route as we speak."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Vaan growled. "I'm not going anywhere with a scrap of gutter churl like you."

"Suit yourself." The thief began to walk away with a small huff. "But if you die down here, I'm not taking the blame."

Vaan rolled his eyes as the thief passed from his sight, but was immediately taken off guard by a distant screech from somewhere within the depths of the dungeon, and instantly regretted turning down what had likely been his only chance of survival. As much as he wished to be left alone to wallow in his guilt, he now realized the terror that had claimed this place. Nalbina—the fortress that had once overseen passage between Dalmasca and Nabradia, where Prince Rasler and Princess Ashelia had so often played in their youth, where King Raminas had taken his last breath.

Gritty sand lined the stone flooring, its granules clumping into an unstable mud in places, and mixing with rotten straw in others. Only the walls admitted any semblance of stability, rising high enough that their top corners loomed in shadow, their dank stones slick with mold and condensation.

The air bore a foul smell and cool touch, for the outer reaches of Dalmasca's borders escaped the wide desert. Nabradia, which had formerly lied beyond, consisted of meadows and forests, while Landis, stretching even farther past, felt winters no other country knew, and yet still bore the finest crops in all of Ivalice. Vaan had never been to either country, but he could recall Reks' letters, speaking of cold air and grass and trees—and not a single bit of sand. It saddened him that this was the closest he'd ever come to Reks' journeys, but he coped by trying not to think about it. After all, Archadia now possessed lands of all climes and terrains—save for the humid jungles of Rozarria, which all knew were next (and last) on Gramis' list for conquest.

"Now that's a fine thanks!"

Vaan nearly jumped at the shout, forgoing his wearisome thoughts and turning to see a grungy Archadian prisoner behind him, glaring at him with bloodshot, accusing eyes.

"What?" the boy asked.

"Bloke looked after you from the moment you arrived. I had you figured for brothers, but I guess those mismatched accents prove me wrong, eh?"

"Uh, yeah. Just met the guy—don't even know his name."

"Don't know his name? Well, I guess that's Dalmascans for you. That there was the most fearsome skypirate in all of Ivalice! Trained in the art by the Pirate King himself!"

"…Yeah. Whatever."

"Bloody hell!" the prisoner cried. "Are you really so thick that you don't recognize the captain of the _Strahl_!? The man what tamed a Viera and robbed the emperor and ransacked Draklor Laboratory without so much as raising a blade!?"

"I don't really pay attention to Archadian piracy, alright?"

"Well, you'd do well to start with that new consul you got takin' over."

"Look," Vaan snapped. "I don't care about Archadia, I don't care about the consul, and I only ever cared about your pirate because he got me busted for reclaiming _my _country's national treasure."

The man released a loud, sharp laugh. "So, he tried to take what you rightfully stole—is that it?"

"Just leave me alone," Vaan groaned, turning to leave.

"Nice try, sonny." The other prisoner stepped in his path. "You ditch your protection, you got to face the consequences."

"…What?"

"We got ways of handlin' ungrateful little brats down here."

Before Vaan could process the statement, the man landed a fist in his face, stealing consciousness from him once again. He awoke rather quickly this time, but found himself in the clutches of two strange men who had apparently hauled his unconscious form from the chamber he first found himself in to an unrecognizable area of the prison. The thought of escape struck him first, but he did not feel that he could hold his ground against his captors, especially not with the way his head had begun to spin, and he wouldn't have the slightest idea where to run even if he found success in such an endeavor.

They dragged him to a make-shift fighting arena, complete with splintery wooden crates for bleachers and a deep pit of muddy sand surrounded by high wrought iron gates clearly meant to house beasts of burden. A particularly sleazy Rozarrian man—a bookie, apparently—looked him over with a lustful grin, then gave his captors the affirmative, letting them throw him down into the pit. Most of his strength was spent in merely getting back to his feet, and he felt for sure that all blood drained from his face when he first beheld his opponents—two beaten and bloody Landisian men, who eyed each other just as warily as they eyed him. The bookie's cries above continued, drumming up bloodlust from the crowd and pitching the fight as though selling wares at a bazaar. The two Landisians before him conversed gruffly in their native tongue, and Vaan for a moment thought with relief that they may have perhaps been insulting each other, but he had no such luck, for they soon began casting mocking glances at him and burst into bear-like laughter when he tripped in trying to back away from them.

He had never heard actual Landisian spoken, for the Empire had banned its use after conquering the rural republic, and he now found it to be a language as blunt and harsh as those who spoke it—truly, it seemed that it could only be shouted or growled. The bookie above spouted racial slurs to this effect, daring his customers to bet on the poor little Dalmascan, playing up the Landisians as iron-tough fighters but too dumb to work together against a common opponent. The prospect of the fight alone had been enough to churn Vaan's stomach, but the pure racism actually triggered his gag reflex.

Before he could embarrass himself any further, however, a bell sounded and the audience's yells turned to cheers as the Landisians began to circle. Though his feet remained uncooperative, Vaan rushed to his knees weakly, mentally pleading with himself not to throw up, but before his opponents could attack, his luck finally returned to him—in the form of an Archadian accent.

"What's the matter, hamshanks? Sty getting too lonely for you?"

Vaan's eyes turned upward with refreshed hope and discovered the cocksure Archadian thief standing proudly at the edge of the arena, smiling and unbuttoning his cuffs. The men below growled their incoherent threats, but the pirate merely rolled his eyes, undaunted and slightly amused.

"Allow me to simplify…" He leapt agilely down into the pit and stepped between Vaan and the Landisians. "Pick on someone your own size."

A moment of silence settled over the murky chamber as the onlookers paused in awe, but the atmosphere promptly cracked at the bookie's shout: "Place your bets now!"

The thief's determined smirk didn't falter for even a second. He extended a hand for Vaan and pulled him to his feet, then scanned the competition with calculating confidence while cracking his knuckles.

"You alright, kid?"

"Fine."

"Let's get this over with."

A bell sounded—two hollow steel pipes whacked together somewhere above—and the Landisians sprung, each throwing his opponent to the ground immediately. The pirate regained his footing by means of a swift boot between his attacker's legs, and although Vaan was quickly overpowered, he managed to kick some sand into his opponent's eyes and escape the tangle, sore but relatively unharmed. The Landisian quickly recovered and turned furious eyes on the boy, and he saw from the scuffle beyond that he would receive no help for the moment. He dodged a punch, thankfully quicker than the hulking Landisian, but found little success when he landed his fist in the man's gut. Though he did bend forward a bit, the blow had been intended to render him momentarily motionless, and once Vaan saw that it had failed dismally, he added an uppercut to stall for a few seconds more. This, too, proved minimally effective, and before Vaan could think any further ahead, the Landisian slugged him with enough force to throw him from his feet and briefly dim his vision. As he recovered, the man readied a second strike—one that would surely end the brawl.

Vaan briefly feared for his life, for having been knocked unconscious twice in one day, he felt certain that he had a concussion, in which case another blow could do damage exponential in comparison to what had already been done. Of course, even were his circumstances brighter, he would have had no idea what to do about it. Penelo would know. The thought evoked further ferocity in him, and he launched his foot up in a moment of blind anger, striking his opponent in the stomach and effectively knocking the wind out of him. This, however, did not buy Vaan enough time to get to his feet, though it mattered little, for the other Landisian came crashing into the one that stood above him, knocking both to the ground. Vaan turned to direction from which the man had been flung, finding the pirate there, rolling his right shoulder with a slight wince, but otherwise unharmed.

Vaan rolled to his feet and tackled the first Landisian to rise, while the other charged the pirate. He dodged the attack, instead grabbing hold of the Landisian and ramming him straight into the wall behind him, finally knocking him unconscious. Vaan soon wound up pinned by his opponent once more and had taken a nasty hit already, but managed to roll out of the violent mesh, saving himself from another punch. This, however, was not enough, for the Landisian soon got to his feet and kicked Vaan in the stomach as he tried to rise, laying him out on his back.

In that moment, though, the great beast of a man was struck on the back of the head by a flying boot. He turned to face the pirate, who stood proudly beside an unconscious and barefoot brawler, and shouted something jumbled with foreign words. The pirate threw the other boot, smacking the man square in the face and prompting him to forget his vengeance for Vaan and charge the pirate, just as the first had. Vaan let out a laugh as soon his adversary took his first stride, not in the least surprised when the pirate sidestepped the attack and simply tripped the Landisian, allowing him to fall forward, head-first into the stone wall, landing directly on top of the first.

Cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd, though many audibly demanded a rematch. Vaan painfully rose to his feet as the pirate stepped up beside him, looking to the roaring audience.

"Great," he muttered. "Now they'll want an encore."

"Hey…" Vaan offered his hand a bit shyly. "I'm Vaan."

He shook it. "Balthier."

Yet as he spoke his name, it was shouted in full from above as several armed soldiers escorted a group of unsavory ruffians into the room.

"Balthier Bunansa! Show yourself at once!"

Not about to heed the call of an Imperial captain, the two scampered across the sand and pressed themselves stealthily against the wall of the arena, narrowly out of sight, but nevertheless safe for the time being. It quickly became clear that the commanding captain was also the head warden of the prison, for their fellow detainees cowered at his voice and heeded his orders without hesitation.

"Don't make us come looking for you!"

Vaan glanced at Balthier anxiously, but he didn't appear to hold any interest in turning himself in, instead scanning what portions of the room were visible to him and plotting his next move.

"Who here has seen him today?" the warden demanded of the crowd. "Your compliance won't be forgotten."

"There was others with him, sir," one of the prisoners replied.

"You can't expect us to rat him out if you intend to leave his friends down here to avenge him," another added.

A bounty hunter strode up to the warden with an angry growl. "You won't find him by askin' questions, anyway! He's a stag what needs huntin'!"

"I won't have future prisoners terrorizing my current ones!" the warden declared. "Our deal is dependent on the keeping of order."

Then a second bounty hunter stepped forward aggressively. "If he was the type to show hisself at any bloke's request, d'ye really think his bounty'd be as high as it is?"

Fran at last appeared at one of the many gates along the edge of the arena and lifted it a bit, allowing Vaan and Balthier enough space to slip beneath it without causing enough noise to alert the mob above. They quietly sidestepped their way to her and crawled under, then followed her a few paces to the safety of a dark alcove.

"Darling," Balthier whispered jovially, "what would I do without you?"

"Nothing," Francesca answered in an almost sarcastically flat tone. "You'd be long dead."

Balthier just smiled at this, and she continued: "I sought to tell you before they arrived, but you had to go running off again. They cut a deal with the warden; he gets half the bounty if you're found here."

"Not bloody likely. Where are we with the escape?"

She cast a glare at Vaan, but Balthier reassured her: "Don't worry about him."

"…Mist seethes from the torture chamber," she went on warily, "but it is sealed beyond the locks outside."

"Fantastic."

Fran then adopted a devilish smirk and flicked her ears. "But I heard something else from the warden—a Judge."

"Here?"

She nodded upwards to the crowd. "There. He comes to question the Kingslayer."

Balthier paused for moment, both confused and concerned. "…What?"

"The Kingslayer?" Vaan echoed. There was only one Kingslayer, and he had been executed two years ago—surely nothing good could come of this.

"The lot of you are incompetent fools!" one of the headhunters bellowed. "If you've the pirate in your hands, where is he?"

"You'd have done better?" the warden scoffed. "By your own words, it was the Imperial army who caught this prey of yours. We've done your job for you."

"Maybe I'll whet my blade on you before I kill Balthier."

"Kill him and you won't get full price."

Both drew their swords violently, but their argument was quelled by a disturbingly calm voice from the entryway: "That's enough."

"Just our luck," Balthier muttered. "It's Gabranth. He'll take no negotiations from the likes of us."

The Judge came to a smooth halt before the bounty hunter and continued with a sturdy Landisian accent: "The doctor requires a live delivery. He'll pay for nothing else."

"There's others who would pay for a corpse," the offending bounty hunter sneered.

"Not nearly as much," Gabranth replied. "And bear in mind that you will answer to me if you mess this up."

"Uh…my apologies…"

Balthier smiled with jaded sarcasm. "Aw. Thanks, Noah."

"Where is the captain?" Gabranth went on.

"We have him in solitary, Your Honor," said the warden, weaving through the crowd of bounty hunters. "We're ready to begin our interrogation."

One of the hunters lurched forward. "But, Balthier—"

"This does not concern you," Gabranth interrupted. "Find your pathetic prey and be gone."

The prisoners parted, creating a path before the warden, but he kept his focus on the hunters. "Just go ahead and have your run of the place. I suppose they could use a little roughing up—but not too much, you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"Time for the hare to follow the fox," said Fran.

"I love the way your gods think," Balthier added.

"Huh?" asked Vaan.

"Well," Balthier explained, carefully maneuvering his way out of the shadows, "our clanky friends are undoubtedly headed for the torture chamber, and the little gits won't dare interfere with a Judge. We'll get him to open it for us."

As they took refuge in a new alcove, Francesca folded her arms. "Who exactly is _us_?"

"Umm…" At a loss for words, Vaan simply ran a hand through his hair.

"Right," said Balthier. "Vaan is coming with us."

"I don't trust him."

This caught Vaan's attention immediately, but not for the obvious reasons. Fran had spoken it in Vieran, which Vaan didn't understand a word of and which only put him more on edge. Balthier, however, was fluent and sensed the boy's unease.

"I was under the impression that you trusted _me_," he replied in the same language.

Fran nodded with a slight huff and continued the conversation in the language of humans: "This had better not turn out like that incident in Archades."

Balthier groaned. "Honestly. That was three years ago…"

They continued on, skillfully dodging the few prying eyes that may have strayed from the ruckus caused by the bounty hunters.

"Wait a minute," said Vaan. "What's up with these Judges? Some Archadian thing?"

"He is young in mind, too," Francesca commented haughtily.

"More than a thing, I'm afraid," Balthier answered when they reached safer ground. "They're the self-proclaimed guardians of law and order in Archadia. They're also the elite guard of House Solidor, which effectively makes them the commanders of the Imperial army. If you ask me, they're more executioners than judges—one of the many reasons I took to the sky in the first place."

"Geez…" Vaan risked taking a closer peek at Gabranth, who now stood impatiently while the warden nervously unlocked a gate sealing off a smaller chamber.

"Not a friendly lot, at any rate," Balthier went on, preparing to run through the gate once it was opened. "If it comes down to it, stick close to the bounty hunters. Come on."

They made it past the closing gate with mere seconds to spare, and though they did not attract any attention from the warden or the Judge, much to their own detriment a pair of headhunters caught sight of them as they caught their breath on the safer side of the bars. The quick bout of running and shouting that ensued proved most amusing to Balthier and Fran, though Vaan thought for sure that he would never see the light of another day. The warden assured the hunters that there was no way Balthier could sneak into the maximum security area and that they would not be allowed in to search. More yelling followed, but it didn't seem to phase the thieves.

"Wow…" Vaan whispered in mild astonishment. "You really are wanted…"

"Of course," Balthier answered. "Who wouldn't want me?"

"They're moving," Fran interrupted, grabbing Balthier's sleeve and dragging him after her.

With a smirk, Vaan followed.

Presently, the warden brought Gabranth to a tall, gothic door on the back wall of the fortress, and the thieves at last reached a distance at which they could clearly overhear the conversation:

"Is the isolation really necessary?" Gabranth asked.

The warden shook his head as if to imply a negative response, but then stated begrudgingly, "He'll just try to escape again, otherwise."

"I know, but he's always worse when he comes out of there."

"Isn't that the goal?"

Gabranth studied the door with steely indignation. "In two years he hasn't given in to your methods—reason would suggest a change is due."

"Trust me, Your Honor, persistence is the key to interrogation. The finest steeds take the longest to break."

While Gabranth continued to berate him, he produced a gleaming stone from his satchel and inserted it in a fitted indentation in the door, lighting it up to a bright maroon color that appeared far out of place within the dank prison. Balthier's eyes seemed to dim almost shamefully at the sight of the magicite, but Vaan found the feat quite impressive—never had he beheld such technology, not even in the bustling bazaars of Rabanastre. Fran pawed the dirt a bit as Gabranth and the warden each produced a key to be inserted in separate locks on the great door, and Vaan turned hesitantly to Balthier.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, praying that such a question would not further insult Francesca. "I mean, we don't even know what's in there…"

"Viera's noses are sharp," the Archadian assured him. "If she says there's a way out, there's a way out."

Vaan had no time to voice his lingering skepticism, for the door creaked open and they silently crept in behind the Imperials. The door led to the upper floor of a small circular chamber where chains, cages, and unnatural instruments of torture had been stored while not in use. A cool fog hazed the air, and all of the stonework was slick with condensation and mold. The door by which they had entered appeared to be the exit as well, for no other openings could be spied either on the top level or the bottom. A single staircase descended from the doorway to the grimy cobbled floor, and Gabranth and the warden tread down it without so much as casting sideward glances to the encircling floor above them, granting the thieves safe eavesdropping ground, if only temporarily.

Welded to the floor below them were several steel loops, and chained to one of these was an ashen, feral man with pensive green eyes and hair too dirty to tell the color of. His knuckles bled and his bones jutted out, and cuts and bruises marred his face—trophies from discipline well-earned. He looked to be in his mid-forties, though his frame remained as solid and imposing as a workhorse's, and little could be divined of his sanity, though he did have a decidedly dignified way of ignoring the warden's insults and orders. Vaan leaned in as far as safety would allow, straining his eyes to find some semblance of evil in the prisoner, and forcing his mind to keep his emotions in check. Surely this could not be the notorious Basch Ronsenburg, the Kingslayer—the traitor who single-handedly doomed Dalmasca to its current occupation, the knight who failed to protect Prince Rasler at Nabudis, the captain who betrayed the orders of Princess Ashelia here at Nalbina, the soldier who killed Reks. This was nothing more than a caged beast, once tame perhaps, but now broken and vicious—less than a shadow; less than a man.

"…He's still alive!?" Vaan growled through clenched teeth.

"Shhh!" Fran and Balthier answered.

When the warden at last finished his lecture, Gabranth stepped up to the prisoner with a distinctively casual arrogance: "Good morning, Basch."

"Go to hell," he replied.

Balthier leaned in a tad closer, pressing Fran's ears down out of sight as she followed.

"You look terrible," Gabranth went on.

"Thanks for noticing."

"Why so edgy? I've come to help you."

"Last time you came to help me, they broke my leg and starved me for a week."

Gabranth shook his head with a nearly inaudible sigh that sounded at once both pitiful and sarcastic. "Such bitterness is unbecoming of a knight. Did you ever imagine this for yourself? Years of bloodshed—shame, misery?"

"Such is knighthood," Basch groaned, breaking eye-contact and painfully shifting his chains.

"Look at you, for God's sake. You've let yourself be wholly turned from humanity. Sentenced to death, and yet you live. Why?"

"To silence Ondore. How many times must I say it?"

"Is that all?"

"Why not ask Vayne himself? Is he not one of your masters?"

"My masters hold your life in their hands."

"Then what the hell are they waiting for?"

Gabranth paused apprehensively, cocking his head much in the manner of a puppy upon discovery of a new toy. Oddly, Basch mirrored the gesture with perfect accuracy, and the Judge at last answered him in Landisian. Their conversation continued in this language for a few moments until the warden at last interrupted by questioning whether he should leave them to their own devices. Vaan glanced to Fran and Balthier, as they seemed far better educated in foreign tongues than he, but their confusion appeared to match his own. To their luck, however, Gabranth bade the warden stay and continued on to Basch in more common words:

"Vayne's taken care of that. He'll send no more insurgents here to conjecture with you. Once we take Bhujerba, you'll have outlived your usefulness…"

Basch laughed and shook some hair out of his eyes. "Vayne…you really hate him, don't you?"

"Mind your tongue…" Gabranth growled.

"He used you and passed you off on the kid."

"You would know all about being used, wouldn't you? Make no mistake, Basch—the most honorable years of my life have been spent in servitude to House Solidor."

"Most honorable and the last. Solidor's numbers dwindle. Wrath among brothers rarely serves posterity well."

Even through the armor, the thieves could see Gabranth tense up like a feral cur before injured game, but his voice remained the epitome of composure: "Rarely does not mean never."

"Fairly said," Basch answered. "Now what do you want?"

"We've caught a leader of the insurgence in Rabanastre. The woman, Amalia."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has. She claims she served under you during the war."

Basch shifted his chains once again. "I thought I killed everyone who served under me," he answered with a bitter, half-sane smirk.

"She says she knew you as a lieutenant in Landis," the Judge continued dryly, "and was transferred to Captain Vossler's command in Dalmasca at your promotion. If you refuse to discuss her, will you at least give up a lead on him?"

"I already told you: Vossler's dead."

"Need I remind you that your generosity in these matters will be rewarded?"

"Not interested."

A moment of silence followed. Basch stared angrily at the ground, and Gabranth gazed dejectedly off to the side, unable to look at the filthy prisoner. Soon enough, however, the Judge spoke: "…I'm sorry."

"You should be," Basch replied.

"I can help you if you'll just cooperate…"

"Isn't there a prince somewhere in need of your protection?"

Noting that Gabranth gave no reply, the warden stepped in with a slight air of menace. "Shall we begin?"

Gabranth simply regarded the Kingslayer with an icy stillness. "No."

"…He's telling the truth?"

"No."

At once, the Judge turned and strode out of the dim chamber, leaving the warden to trot at his heels uncertainly. "…Your Honor?"

The slamming of the door announced their exit, and Basch wearily began to fiddle with his irons—which he'd obviously been hard at work on when the Imperials first arrived. Balthier stepped out of hiding and shook some soil from his cuffs, then cast a friendly glance toward the haggard captain.

"Lock picking, eh?"

"Nothing better to do."

"You won't get far on those," Balthier explained with a smirk. "New model, made specifically to deter gents like you. Draklor Laboratory is phasing out pin-barrels entirely—"

"I thought it was the Archadian code of etiquette not to speak unless you can improve the silence."

The pirate scowled, but then shrugged it off and turned to Fran. "Fine then. Fran? This the place?"

She approached him slowly, eyes wandering over the walls and ceiling in search of an opening of any sort. "The Mist is flowing through this room. It must be going somewhere."

Basch turned his eyes to her upon hearing her foreign accent, but after granting her a moment of study, he came to the soundest conclusion he could: "God, I've lost it."

"Something tells me you lost it long ago," Balthier added.

Now he shook his head and allowed his sanity the benefit of the doubt. "You're no Imperials…"

"He's smarter than he looks," Fran groaned.

"Please, you must get me out—"

"It's against my policy to speak with the dead," Balthier retorted. "Especially when they happen to be ungrateful Kingslayers."

"I didn't kill him."

"Is that so? Glad to hear it!"

"And I will be grateful."

"You're not really _improving_ the _silence_, are you?"

"Please, for the sake of Dalmasca!"

Fran examined the nearest wall closely, running her fingers over the brickwork with interest. "Here…" she said slowly. "There was a door here, I think."

While Balthier assisted her in breaking through the crumbling masonry, Vaan cast a disparaging look on Basch. "Dalmasca!?" he sneered. "What do you care about Dalmasca? Everything that's happened is because of you!"

"You have to believe me," he begged. "That was not the way of it!"

"Shut up! You're supposed to be dead!"

"Quiet!" Balthier interrupted. "The guards will hear!"

They all paused then, realizing the ease that Basch would have in alerting half the prison of their presence, and Balthier quickly shot him a cocky look of warning.

"I could just knock you out," he said.

"Try it," Basch replied.

Another pause, and Balthier knelt down and set to work on Basch's irons, leaving Fran to push out the remaining bricks. "Oh, alright. You'll have to forgive the little cage-rattler there; he's new to the whole prison thing."

"Don't let him go!" Vaan protested.

"Fran!"

In an instant, Fran was between Vaan and Balthier.

"Whoa…"

"Ship or no ship," she growled, "Balthier is still the captain."

"Pirates, huh?" Basch sighed.

"The best," said Balthier. "I imagine two years ago, you would've been trying to kill us."

"Times change, and friends with them."

With a simple clack, the cuffs popped off, and Balthier rose with clear pride in his work.

"That was fast," Basch stated in awe.

"Practice makes perfect," the pirate replied. "Of course, it also helps that I invented them."

"A pirate who invents locks?" he asked in a low tone.

Balthier mirrored the tone with slight contempt. "Leave it to the government to go and bastardize a work of art. You alright?"

He remained crouched wearily like a wild beast, inspecting the bloody rings around his wrists left by the heavy manacles. "I've had worse."

"Do you really care?" asked Vaan.

"Hey," Balthier answered airily, "I didn't see him kill anyone."

"My brother did."

Basch looked up to Vaan curiously, then with a glint of recognition. "Reks…I thought you looked familiar."

Vaan just rolled his eyes and continued to yank stones from the wall.

"Where is he now?" Basch asked.

"Dead," Vaan answered.

"…I see." He tried to gain some stable footing, but found that his strength had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self. "I suppose you were told I did it."

"What's there to suppose?"

"Please." He leaned against the wall now, struggling pathetically to stand. "I know my word means nothing at this point, but I swear I am innocent…"

"Yes, yes, of course," Balthier injected, approaching the lame Landisian once more. "We're all innocent down here." He extended his hand, which Basch gladly accepted. "Up you go."

"What the hell are you doing?" Vaan demanded. "Let him rot down here!"

Basch stumbled, his legs still wobbly from what had likely been months of cramped confinement, but Balthier remained hospitable at his side. "Sorry, Vaan. I believe him."

"You do?" Vaan and Basch asked in unison.

"Isn't it obvious?" the pirate answered. "His evil twin did it."

Basch was utterly dumbfounded. "…How did you know?"

"Noah and I used to be drinking buddies. He's off his rocker if you ask me."

"What!?" Vaan exclaimed in disbelief.

"You knew all this time and you didn't tell anyone!?" Basch added, regaining his wits but once again losing his balance.

"I'm a pirate," Balthier defended, catching and steadying him. "Who's going to believe me?"

"Whoa, wait a minute!" Vaan cut in. "You really _are_ innocent?"

"Yes," Basch groaned. "I was framed. Vayne thought up the whole thing in order to victimize Dalmasca."

"The emperor's son?" Vaan asked suspiciously.

"Made Archadia look downright compassionate for stepping in like they did," Balthier added. "They couldn't have kept up their good terms with Bhujerba otherwise. And Rozarria is always looking for excuses to pick a fight."

Vaan hesitated, contemplating this news, searching for some excuse to believe it, for in truth, he dearly wanted to. Basch did seem to be telling the truth. And he was, after all, a man who had served (or rather failed to serve) three countries in ten years, and clearly there was just no keeping him down, whether metaphorically or physically. Even now he struggled for independence—he and Balthier were more wrestling than cooperating—but there were simply too many fuzzy details, and Vaan's loyalty was first to his family, and then to his country. "…No way. I'm not gonna believe it until I see you two in the same room."

The captain sighed. "You just did."

"What?"

Balthier smirked. "Like I said: off his rocker."

"You're one to talk," Basch growled. "How could you just leave me to a lifetime of torture?"

But Balthier, as always, was quick to his own defense: "Come now. I thought you were executed two years ago. And I'm helping you out now, so what's there to worry about?"

The captain had finally found his center of gravity—fleeting though it appeared—and seemed too exhausted (or perhaps too irritated) to reply.

"Balthier!" Vaan scolded, seeing that Fran would offer no objection. "Don't listen to him! He'll kill us the first chance he gets."

"Oh, spare us your quiddities," Balthier groaned, watching Basch take a few clumsy steps toward the wall.

"But he's a—"

"A traitor, I know. So am I, for that matter; and so are you. Stay here and fight if you want—whatever it takes to make you happy." He slapped Basch merrily on the back and headed into the dark passageway beside Fran. "If you can walk, let's go."

"You're taking him with us!?" Vaan scoffed.

"I took you, didn't I?"

"I can't thank you enough…" said Basch, finally gaining his own ground.

"You talk too much, Captain."

Fran sighed and shook her head. "Our ranks grow by the hour."

"And our troubles with them," Balthier added, "but better to be uneasy than outnumbered."

"I can't believe this…" Vaan growled.

"The gods never did like you much," Fran continued in Vieran.

"Then why did they bother creating me?" Balthier replied.

"My punishment."

"Ah."


	4. Chapter 3

_III._

Amalia sat in the corner of her holding cell, eyes trained on the grimy ground before her. In the opposite corner, on the other side of the bars, stood Judge Drace, a silent and imposing figure keeping watch over her at all hours. Vayne had not spoken to the prisoner since first interviewing her upon her apprehension, at which point she had made several allegations regarding her origins that he could not possibly prove as true or false. He had his suspicions, of course, but he wouldn't dare make them known until he held certain evidence. He couldn't afford a single mistake with his father watching his every move.

The city had calmed somewhat, but the disaster at the fete had done irreparable damage to his image (among other things), and nearly half of the Resistance members that had been captured had disappeared only a few hours after their imprisonment. Though the escape had been successfully withheld from the public (and Amalia), word would no doubt spread quickly, and they would soon come after their comrades. Vayne had already scheduled many of them for execution, but some could not be convicted under Dalmascan law due to lack of evidence that they had participated willingly, and, although he held the power and the position, he was in no place to go changing laws in order to kill what were viewed widely as loyal Dalmascans. He had to get these people to like him, after all.

His nagging thoughts spurred him to pace in the hall outside of Amalia's cell, and he felt the beginnings of a migraine brewing behind his eyes, but knew he had no time for dealing with such trifles. With the Eighth Fleet mere days away from arrival, his first priority was making the palace safe, and holding a leader of the Resistance within its walls did not serve this purpose in the least. But still, he could not remove her until her background had been thoroughly investigated, and even then—where would he move her that the Resistance could not infiltrate?

As he paced, his personal bodyguard, Judge Bergan, approached carrying a letter, which he held out to the prince dutifully.

"Lord Vayne, a message from Judge Gabranth."

"A message?" Vayne asked irritably, taking the letter and opening it.

"He is unable to report to you personally," Bergan explained. "The emperor bade him come to Archades before the Eighth Fleet should arrive."

At this Vayne rolled his eyes and released an ill-tempered sigh—behavior he would only allow himself in front of the ever-understanding and commiserating Bergan. "How does the old bastard expect me to run anything efficiently when he is constantly ordering my men about on his own business?"

"A good question, Highness, but one I'd rather not involve myself with."

Vayne scanned over the letter, praying for confirmation, but finding no such thing. The Kingslayer, it seemed, gave but a minimal account of General Amalia, claiming no knowledge of her, though Gabranth felt sure that this was a lie and that the woman was indeed of great importance. Getting Basch to cooperate was the only thing Gabranth was any good for those days. He'd lost his edge after the Nalbina incident, and Vayne had wanted to silence him then, but Drace and Gramis found him to be a necessity, and so he stayed.

Of greater note, however, was that Basch had gone missing, as had the infamous Balthier Bunansa, much to the detriment of Doctor Cid's bounty hunters. Vayne withheld a groan, knowing what would have to be done about both quandaries, and looked up to Bergan.

"We're screwed," he said.

"My sympathies," the Judge replied.

"Things were supposed to calm down after I left the ranks," Vayne growled. "If this nonsense keeps up, I'll have to send the Eighth back."

"Highness, you couldn't do that," Bergan insisted. "It's been more than a month since you last saw each other—we'll step up the security."

"No, we have to get rid of her."

"Agreed. But His Excellency will not act so quickly."

"He will not trust me so quickly, either," Vayne all but groaned. "With the Kingslayer on the loose, we stand to lose Bhujerba."

"I could have him disposed of," Bergan offered with considerable insolence.

"No," said Vayne, "I've got bigger plans for you. I've changed my mind about the Bunansa kid—I want him killed."

At this, the Judge paused and turned his head slightly—a motion that would have been far more exaggerated were he not so burdened beneath his helmet. "…But Doctor Cid—"

"I don't care," Vayne said with serpentine smoothness. "He knows too much. I can't risk him getting close to the insurgence."

"My Lord, he would never allow such information to fall into the wrong hands."

"He's a loose canon, Bergan. Maybe Cid can't understand that, but I can. See that it's done."

"Yes, My Lord."

Vayne raised the letter and headed toward the door of Amalia's cell. "Wish me luck."

Bergan nodded, and Vayne stepped into the room with as dignified a manner as he could muster. In the far corner stood Drace, and in the opposite corner, on a bland bench fixed securely to the wall, sat the brooding Amalia, enclosed on the other side of a set of steel bars, but nonetheless possessed of an attitude of one who held ground in the same room as all others.

He had to admit that she was the most beautiful general he'd ever seen—with warmly sun-kissed skin and pale almond hair that took on a silvery glint in the proper light—but his years of military service had bred in him the tendency to view women in two distinct categories: soldiers and civilians. He'd commanded female soldiers in battle, and knew that they could freeze their emotions far more effectively than men could. A woman with a sword, he had learned long ago, was rivaled by no other threat. But in Amalia he found something oddly feminine—something he had seen only in rebels. She had not been a soldier for long. He could almost feel it. She could give and take orders, she could hold her ground in combat, but she still bore the gentle countenance of a woman accustomed to chivalry, and for this her tales of years spent in the army simply did not wash.

As he entered the holding quarters once more, he immediately recognized the nobility of her posture—the way her fingers laid so daintily parallel to each other in spite of their manly strength, the way her ankles crossed and her knees pressed together in spite of her clunky boots. Even as she rose upon his entry, her carriage betrayed her. A glass of water could be balanced on her head and barely wobble as she walked.

He did not comment on such things, though, too well-trained in Archadian etiquette, and instead shut the door behind him, nodding his greeting to Drace, but not daring to ask for privacy. Drace was the only Judge who could intimidate Vayne; he hated it.

As soon as he met eyes with Amalia, she took up their previous conversation:

"I'm not lying."

"We'll see." He folded the letter after taking one last glance down at it, then returned his gaze to her. "How old are you again?—If you don't mind me prying."

"Thirty-two."

Looking her up and down, he withheld an almost cordial smile. "I hope you'll forgive me for being forward, but you look ten years younger."

"Thank you," she said cattily.

"You spent two years serving under Captain Ronsenburg when Archadia marched on the Republic of Landis, correct?"

"Yes, but he was a lieutenant then."

"Right, right," he continued, slowly pacing before the bars of her cell. "So…from the time you were…"

"Twenty-two to twenty-four." She stood motionless except for the gradual turning of her head to level her sharp glare on him as he walked. Her fingers looked all the more delicate curled around the drab grey bars that imprisoned her.

"Hm." Vayne eyed Drace, but quickly turned back to the general. "So, Landis fell and you returned to Dalmasca."

"Right," she confirmed with a nod.

"Why fight for Landis in the first place, then?"

"I went to live there when I married."

"Your husband is Landisian?"

"Was."

"Apologies." Noting that neither her gaze nor her tone faltered, he continued as steadily as he could. "So, at twenty-four you joined the Old Order and served under…"

"Captain Vossler—for six years, until I was thirty."

"But you were never at Nalbina?"

"I was injured before my troop departed. Basch killed them all. I've always thought myself lucky."

At last he ceased his pacing, hoping with all earnestness that he had finally found a gap in her rehearsal. "Do you call all your superior officers by their first names?" he asked.

"Do you still consider that traitor a superior officer?" she asked back.

"Well, he certainly did me a great favor." And at this she wrinkled her nose in disgust, eliciting a nearly imperceptible smirk on his part, though he managed to restrain himself with speed only possessed by one who had been trained in managing his manners since infancy. "You may be surprised to learn that I have a quite reliable contact in your insurgence."

"Resistance."

A subtle metallic creaking sounded as Drace shifted, but Vayne paid it no heed, instead holding up Gabranth's letter and regarding the general with his best impression of his father. "Apparently, he's never heard of you."

"And yet you have," she replied in that short, precise way that Dalmascans so often did. "Is this your idea of reliable?"

His expression yielded to reflect his true emotions, but he continued to address her as he would a soldier: "Let's drop the pretenses, shall we? You never served Ronsenburg or Vossler, and you are certainly not thirty-two. But _Basch_? A friend of yours?"

"A friend of my husband's," she corrected, at last breaking eye contact.

Vayne smirked. "Who wasn't at all Landisian, right?"

"Nabradian." Her cold grey eyes returned upward and shimmered like fish scales. "And I'm twenty-five. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"You're nothing without proof."

"I can take you to it."

"What?" he scoffed. "The treasury on the third floor? Our little thief friends left it wide open last night."

She cocked her head. "That's what they were after?"

"Apparently not." He resumed his pacing. "It's not there and it wasn't on any of them."

"…That's what _you're_ after?"

"You may recall, madam, that I am the one interrogating you…"

"And I suppose that's about all you can do until you find the Dusk Shard."

"If you're lying—"

"I'm not."

He halted, meeting her eyes once more, though he found himself unable to intimidate her in the least. Seeing no weakness in her resolve, he silently took his leave, and she, after momentarily resting her gaze on the door after it slammed and then on the Judge who watched over her, strode elegantly back to the bench at the far end of her cell and sat, deep in thought and eager for the future.

Back in the hall once more, Vayne turned to his bodyguard. "Bergan."

"My Lord."

"How close is the Eighth?"

"Docking in Bhujerba as we speak."

"Perfect." He crumpled the letter in his fist. "Send for the _Shiva_."


	5. Chapter 4

**Note:** The Vossler/Azelas switch doesn't actually have any significance in the story. I only did it because I know a guy named Azelas (no really, I do) and it was weird for me writing it the correct way.

_IV._

Though Balthier had described the journey between Rabanastre and Nalbina as lasting a mere three hours, he had first made the trip in an Imperial caravan on well-tread roads. Crossing the desert on foot while avoiding any known path or trading post—and while keeping a torture-weary prisoner in tow—proved a trek of two days and one night, landing them back at the city on the third morning. It may have perhaps been sooner if Balthier hadn't insisted on stopping with the advent of even the slightest sign of food, water, or shade—and if he hadn't gotten them utterly lost, and spent half a day bickering with Fran in Vieran before Basch finally recalled a few landmarks and set them back on track.

Vaan remained wary of his company for the whole of the journey, distrusting Basch for the obvious reasons, and distrusting Fran and Balthier because of their very nature. None of them had any reason to stick with him, and all could just as well kill him and spare themselves the trouble. Balthier had spoken of the Law of Exchange, but Vaan remained unsure of how highly such a code could be esteemed, and Fran appeared to prefer ignoring the boy, though he did on occasion get the feeling that they were talking about him in their private tongue. Viera were rumored as merciless beasts, and Vaan's mind sputtered at the possibilities of how Balthier could speak their language when no other human in recorded history ever had. The obvious answer would be that Fran taught him, but with the way Viera so shunned the human race, this seemed highly suspect.

Basch struggled to keep up the pace, his head pounding and his legs sore with disuse, but the fresh air nevertheless did him good, for within half an hour of leaving the fortress he appeared a good five years younger. His comment regarding having had his leg broken seemed to ring true, for he limped heavily even after regaining a sufficient steadiness, and for the first hour or so he appeared to cower before the sun, slackening his posture in the midst of its glare, and keeping his gaze trained weakly on the sand before him—but after a while his eyes adjusted and his shoulders straightened, and on occasion he even resembled something of a knight, though he retained the wild, desperate countenance of a caged beast.

This reinforced both Vaan's resolve to stay out of trouble for his sister's sake, and his purpose for seeking to aid the Resistance. He certainly didn't want to face what Basch had, and yet he could not stand idly by while a country committed such atrocities without reprimand. As his confusion mounted, however, so did his resolution to burden Penelo no further, and he decided that he would not trouble himself with such decisions until honestly consulting her.

When they finally reached the city gate, they all took a moment to gaze with relief upon the gleaming peaks of the great buildings and the shining steel of the airships before Balthier turned to the group proudly and said, "There, see? I told you I knew where we were going."

Basch shook his head with an exhausted smile. "Balthier…Thank you."

"Don't mention it—literally. And I'd avoid crowds if I were you. In this town you're still a traitor, you know."

"The Resistance will surely find me soon," Basch explained, starting down North Street.

"Let's hope they do before Vayne does," Balthier added.

"Farewell."

"Whatever."

Fran stepped up beside Balthier and watched Basch limp out of sight. "You're losing your edge," she noted.

"I owe his brother a favor," he defended.

"So much for leaving the past where it belongs," she quipped in Vieran.

Ignoring this, Balthier turned to Vaan: "Think he'll last?"

"Not more than an hour," the boy answered.

He laughed. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in skypirating, would you?"

"I would if I didn't have my little sister to take care of."

"Oh, is that who that was? I see. Well, we'll be in town a while longer—search through the pubs if you change your mind."

"Thanks, but I won't."

"Very well, then. But just remember you're a fugitive now, too. Try and stay low for a while."

"Finally, something I'm good at."

"Right. Give our regards to your sister." They headed east, leaving him at the gate to ponder his dismal future.

There was no use in wallowing, though, and he quickly got on his way. His first order of business, as always, was seeking out Penelo to ensure that she was alright and to assure her that he was, too. A sweet sister she was, but worry often got the best of her, and he, unfortunately, had from a very young age been quite apt at generating it. He searched first by the great fountain on the south side of the city, where she often gathered with the other girls to dance and giggle and escape the boys, but she was not there, and Vaan had no desire to start up some irritatingly meaningless conversation with those who were. Next he sought her in the market, thinking that if she was not playing, she would most certainly be working. This, too, proved fruitless, however, and rather time-consuming, for the streets were glutted with shoppers, making his search all the more difficult. Moving on, he headed to Migelo's shop, but decided against revealing himself to Migelo just yet, for he seemed very preoccupied and certainly didn't need news of Vaan's prison break complicating things.

Compounding this, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, and the sky had begun to darken quite quickly, so Vaan decided to seek Penelo out at a more godly hour, and settled in behind a sweet-smelling bakery for the night. True, a bed of some kind would be waiting for him at Migelo's home—Migelo always found room—but his same fears cowed him into avoidance once more, and he certainly didn't want to raise such concerns so late in the day.

Despite being guilt-ridden and dead tired, he couldn't for the life of him fall asleep. His thoughts continually drifted over explaining himself to Penelo and justifying Basch's story and traveling the world with Balthier and Fran. He wondered if he was in fact causing Penelo more worry by not revealing his safety to her immediately, or if the Resistance would meet Basch with joy or hatred. Oddly, his concern seemed most laborious in considering the possibilities that would open to him should he become a skypirate. He would face no laws or loyalties—he could provide for Penelo without dealing with the Empire. And yet there would always be the threat of bounty hunters. For once, Vaan considered the world objectively, and found that Penelo had indeed been right all along. Some things could be changed; others simply had to be tolerated. It was this thought that at last put him to sleep.

As the sun rose the next morning, though, his mind again flooded with worries of all manner, and he finally accepted that the best path was one of honesty, and (after stealing himself some breakfast) he set out in search of Penelo. He checked for the second time her usual sanctuaries with the same results, and resorted to speaking to Migelo, though he greatly preferred to face him with Penelo at his side. However, as he lingered outside the door of Migelo's shop, mentally reciting his explanation, he all at once remembered the promise he had made to Old Dalan. He could always count on finding Dalan in the same place, and he wasn't at all fond of being kept waiting—and furthermore, Penelo had been quite enamored with his ramblings since her early days, so surely he would reveal her whereabouts. Perhaps confrontation with Migelo could be put off a bit longer after all. Vaan smiled and headed for the north alley.

Sure enough, Old Dalan sat in his usual corner, a flock of children enraptured at his feet as he fancifully regaled them with the tale of how he first learned to tie his shoes. Vaan had listened to this story before—many times, in fact—and couldn't withhold a smile as he approached. Dalan, however, grew far more excited than the kids upon catching sight of him and called out exuberantly down the alley:

"Vaan! You baneful boy! Get over here!"

Rolling his eyes, Vaan obliged, and Old Dalan shooed the children away.

"Off with you, wee ones! Go do something remarkable! Go!"

"Hey, Dalan," said Vaan.

"Don't you 'hey' me!" he replied with a laugh. "What's this I hear about you cavorting with the Kingslayer?"

"What? Hey, hey, there was no cavorting—I didn't have a choice. And how did you know about that?"

"The same way I knew how to find the national treasure, of course!"

"Oh, uh…about that…" Vaan ran a hand through his hair, but quickly realized his own childishness and adopted a more manly stance. "I didn't really…Well, I ended up in Nalbina for that."

"So I've heard," Dalan said with a poorly subdued smile, "but please tell me I would not be correct in assuming that you were not successful in retrieving the Dusk Shard…"

His posture slackened back almost immediately. "…Sorry. The Imperials confiscated it."

"Then it is in Vayne's hands now?"

"I guess so."

"Oh, no, no…that is dreadful."

"Well, it wasn't my fault," Vaan whined. "I got ambushed by skypirates."

"Yes, yes, I've heard of that as well." Old Dalan shot him an exceptionally patronizing glare. "Balthier Bunansa, I believe—captain of the _Strahl_. He is not one to be trifled with."

"I didn't think he was so bad. I mean, he screwed everything up for me, but he got me out of it."

"A favor from a pirate? That never bodes well, my boy. From what I've heard, this Balthier is not one to be trusted."

"I had a feeling. You know, he even offered to let me go with him—be a skypirate and all that."

"And you turned him down?"

"I couldn't just leave Penelo—especially not for pirating. She'd be so disappointed."

"Ha!" He slapped his knee with more gusto than a man of his age and stature seemed capable of mustering. "You would do well to change your mind. If Solidor's heir holds the Dusk Shard, Dalmasca is finished."

This struck a nerve. Vaan had seen for himself the courage and determination of the Resistance, and would not hear its goal passed off as a mere fantasy. "Hey, don't say that! The Resistance is gonna take him on again!"

"Resistance?" the old man replied. "What Resistance? They've captured Lady Amalia, and with the Dusk Shard at their disposal…Ah, this is bad—very, very bad!"

"_Lady_ Amalia?" Vaan scoffed. "She seemed kind of…forceful to me."

"Yes, just as a proper lady should be! Now, if you will not abandon Dalmasca, surely you will fight for her, yes?"

Vaan shrugged. "Um, yeah, sure."

"Say it like you mean it!"

"Huh?"

Dalan held his head dismally. "Ah, pathetic. Listen. The Imperials have me under close watch. I must ask a favor of you."

"Okay."

Reaching into a toppled garbage can beside him, Old Dalan struggled under the weight of a sheathed sword then offered it up to Vaan. "There's a fellow by the name of Azelas Vossler down in the south alley," he explained. "I need you to bring this sword to him."

"Not bad!" Vaan inspected the sword with spellbound fascination, not daring to remove it from its glistening case for fear of disrespecting the purpose he suspected it served.

"A sword of the Old Order, that is," Dalan confirmed. "Captain Vossler is a Dalmascan knight, so you'd better show some respect."

"Right, right, but, uh…this wouldn't by any chance have something to do with the Resistance, would it?"

"Ah, you're brighter than you look, my boy, but I'm afraid I am not at liberty to divulge such things. Just speak my name when you arrive; that should be enough to get you in. Mind you, you are to deliver it to him personally."

Vaan nodded, already stepping back in his eager hurry to fulfill the old man's request. "I will."

"And give your Kingslayer my best regards," Dalan called after him as he started out of the alley. "It's about time we got some old Landisians back in action!"

He was halfway to his destination when he realized that he had completely forgotten to ask Old Dalan of Penelo's disappearance. This could no longer be a mere coincidence—if Vaan couldn't find her, something had to be wrong. He had one last hope, though: he had not actually spoken to Migelo just yet, and he could always count on Migelo to take care of his little sister. But if he hadn't seen her, Vaan feared for the future.

At any rate, somewhere in Rabanastre hid a knight in need of his sword, and Vaan had no right to deprive his country of one of its saviors, so he decided that supporting the Resistance took priority and continued on to the south alley. And yet as he walked, he could not help but feel a small amount of pride overcome him, for even in his state of worry, he knew that Penelo would be pleased with him for aiding their country without resorting to violence or thievery. Though he still fought the urge to abandon everything and join the Resistance, he could not live with himself if he left Penelo behind, and it seemed that he had at last found some middle ground—and simply holding the sword of a knight succeeded in making him feel like one.

The Order of Dalmascan Knights kept to strict rituals of initiation that had been passed down since the time of the Dynast King. For each knight that pledged fealty to the crown, a new sword was forged of the finest metals Dalmasca had to offer, and with this sword, the reigning king swore in his newest servant, so that no two knights should ever swear upon the same blade. In this way, the knights kept with them their promise, an ever-present reminder of who and what they fought for. Vaan had never actually seen an initiation ceremony, for only the royals and other knights were permitted to attend, but he had heard enough about them and couldn't resist drawing the sword from its sheath and taking a peek. What he saw cast a whole new light on Old Dalan's simple appeal.

Every sword had engraved along its blade the name of the knight who would bear it, but where Vaan expected to find Captain Vossler's name, he instead found Basch's. He had not considered what would become of Basch's sword after his supposed execution, though he knew of the traditional means of disposal for a knight's initiation blade: if the knight died honorably, it was to be buried with him; if he died dishonorably, it would either be melted down and forgotten, or passed onto a fellow knight with the hopes of seeking redemption beyond death. Vaan pondered this for a moment, unable to come up with a valid explanation. The only one to survive the attack had been his poor brother, Reks, and he was a mere foot soldier. Besides, he had no sword upon being taken from the site to the royal infirmary—Basch had supposedly disarmed him before wounding him. Clearly, he did not give it to Azelas, for Vaan now sought to deliver it to him himself.

At last, it hit him: Gabranth. In order to effectively impersonate Basch, Gabranth would have to have taken his sword. But had he kept it all this time? The Resistance would surely have seen it destroyed while under the impression that Basch had betrayed them, so he must have given it up to them after learning of Basch's escape from Nalbina. In spite of his growing concern for Penelo, Vaan smiled faintly.

Upon reaching the south alley, he found only a few homeless men loitering about amid several garbage cans and splintered shipping crates, but he had discovered while being arrested with the Resistance members after the fete that they indeed hid themselves in all forms and places, and thus simply approached one and spoke:

"Um, excuse me. I'm looking for Azelas Vossler—Old Dalan sent me."

"Good," the man replied, getting to his feet. "We've been expecting you. Right in here." He led him behind a stack of crates, then through a hidden drainpipe into the sewers. The stone foundations of Rabanastre proved a true wonder in their impeccable structure, and Vaan thought for sure that his eyes deceived him when the man pressed in a series of stones that triggered a mechanism within the wall. "These chambers were built to house royals in case of invasion," the Resistance member explained upon noticing Vaan's awe.

"Whoa…" he replied faintly.

Within the chamber stood another door—this one plain and wooden—which the man knocked on as one would when paying a simple daily visit to a friend. Another man opened the door, and the first saluted. "Sir, the messenger."

"Right," he said, dismissing the first soldier and stepping aside to let Vaan in. "Come along."

He followed obediently, finding the room beyond to be something of an infirmary. Along the walls several cots had been set up, and food and medical supplies teetered in high stacks against the support columns, but the Resistance soldiers present appeared to be in good health or at least nearing the final stages of recovery, for they sat gathered in clusters, some playing cards, some haphazardly working to regain their fencing skills, and most, it seemed, engaging in a rather heated debate regarding Basch. Vaan sought to question his new guide on the matter, but he instead deposited the boy in a corner, and with a simple "wait here" disappeared behind another door. At a loss, Vaan shifted the sword and leaned against the wall, listening in on the discussion:

"Then what do you think of Ondore's proclamation? Are you suggesting they fooled even the marquis?"

"It's a stretch, I know, but if Gabranth really did kill the king, that would explain everything, wouldn't it?"

"The world's explanations are never so easy, and even if that were the case, the captain would still be brother to a Judge! I see no reason to trust such a man."

"But…well, come on! It's _Basch_! Just two years ago we would have charged into battle at his word."

"Two years is a long time. His word alone convinces me of nothing!"

"I'd take his word over that of a mouthpiece marquis."

"Then you name Reks liar with him."

Suddenly, a new voice entered the conversation: "Just the opposite. Reks was the witness they needed—he bears no blame."

Vaan glanced about the room to identify the speaker, finding him to be a tall, imposing man of perhaps forty, though his eyes bore far more youth than the rest of his countenance, and his dark hair appeared to be turning prematurely grey. The others parted at his presence—clearly, this was Captain Vossler—and Vaan saw as they stepped aside that beside him stood Basch, looking wholly like a new man. Though he still emanated a need to be properly fed, he now appeared to be nearing his mid-thirties, with bright green eyes and warm blonde hair—even his limp was barely noticeable. Vaan hardly recognized him, but he seemed to notice Vaan immediately.

"Vaan?"

"Uh…hi."

The man who had led him in gestured to him while addressing Azelas. "The messenger, sir."

"Reks' brother," Basch added.

"Hm." Azelas stepped up to Vaan, who quickly held out the sword. "Spitting image."

"You knew him, too?" Vaan asked.

"Not well," he answered, taking the sword and looking it over. "He was a good kid—good soldier." Satisfied with the blade, he once again met Vaan's eyes. "Certainly no liar, right?"

"…He thought it was Basch," Vaan said carefully. "That doesn't mean it was."

Azelas smirked and turned to Basch. "Your words may convince a child such as this, but they weigh far too lightly on the scales for my taste. Our paths will remain separate."

"Do you not think Amalia worth saving?" Basch asked quietly.

"How many times must I tell you to leave her to me?"

The other soldiers tensed, but Basch took such words as nothing more than a façade at best. "You may be able to regroup the Dalmascan forces," he contended, "but without her, our sources in Bhujerba and Nabradia are as good as lost. She isn't just your toy anymore—she belongs to all of us."

"Toy?" Azelas scoffed. "You know very well that she belongs to no one."

"Try telling her that."

Vaan shifted, feeling deeply the nervousness of those around him. Basch had seemed quite sensible in the dungeon and the desert, yet here he stood, daring to argue with an apparent leader of the Resistance. Despite his better judgment, the boy began to hope that he hadn't freed Basch only to see him killed. But it quickly became clear that the two would not harm each other, for Azelas' stony expression softened—if only slightly—and he glanced briefly to the ground before speaking in a low, solemn voice:

"You don't understand. She only let them catch her in order to save me. I would have already been executed by now, but they need her alive."

"And so you leave her in their hands?" Basch asked.

"Of course not!" Azelas growled. "We have already attempted to rescue her, but she was not in the palace. Our contacts tell us she has been taken from Rabanastre on Vayne's order. Once her location is confirmed, we will set out again."

Basch cast an almost bored glance off to the side and suppressed a sigh. "_We_ doesn't include me, does it?"

"The night we moved against Vayne, he knew," Azelas answered with bitter resign. "I will not chance such disadvantage again. I must treat you as I would Ondore—as I would any abettor of the Empire."

"I cannot blame you for your caution, but you know what I have done to her. How am I to live with myself if she still holds me responsible?"

"What reaction do you expect to receive? It will take far more than an apology, and even then, things will not simply go back to the way they were—she'd sooner kill you than forgive you. Without her leadership, the Resistance is powerless, and given your history, you should be, too. I will not risk another betrayal."

Anxious stares were exchanged among the soldiers, but Basch brushed it off without a second thought. "Then what will you do? Hold me here in chains?"

Azelas let out a huff of grudging admiration. "Experience dictates that would do me no good."

"Some things never change, do they…"

"Listen to me, Ronsenburg. Your cage may have no bars, but it is a cage nonetheless. The eyes of the Resistance watch unblinking."

"Let them watch. I know something of cages."

Azelas smirked slightly, but hid it well, holding the sword out to Basch with a critical—if not optimistic—glare of expectation. "Then prove us wrong."

Basch mirrored the look of bemusement and took the sword, then silently turned and left. Accusations quickly descended on Azelas, both from those who didn't trust Basch and from those who did, but Vaan had no further interest in the tired debate and took his leave, hurrying down the alley after the Landisian.

"Basch!"

"Haven't you had your fill of trouble yet?"

Vaan stopped at his side and explained with resigned fatigue. "Look. I just…Do you even have any idea what you're doing?"

"I'll figure it out," Basch answered a tad coldly.

"Well, why don't you start with Old Dalan?"

"Old who?"

"Dalan. He's this Bhujerban guy who shacks up in the north alley. He talked about Amalia—I think he's an undercover contact."

A moment of silence stilled between them while Basch warily studied the boy, bedding down the inherent suspicion that two years of torture had bred in him, and trying to remind himself that this was Vaan, not Reks. "…You really do think I'm innocent, don't you?" he asked at length.

Vaan managed something of a lame grin, unsure of how to answer such a question. "Well, yeah. I mean…I _think_ you are—that's still a long way from _knowing_."

"I'll take what I can get," he said with a soft smile. "Thanks for the advice."

"Good luck."

As he walked away, Vaan at last saw in him a true reflection of who he had once been—not a murderer, not a traitor, and not in the least the beaten, broken, savage creature he had first encountered in Nalbina's torture chamber. Oddly, Vaan felt a deep connection to Reks for the first time in nearly two years, and for a moment almost saw some of himself in Basch, and wondered if there had ever been a defining moment in which he regained his own sense of self—if Penelo had noticed that he had ceased his mourning for his brother and taken his life back. It was a truly amazing sight, to be sure: Basch did not flinch or shudder or cower before anything, but just walked with a natural human confidence, shoulders back, head high, seemingly recovered of all his detention had wrought, save for a black eye and the slight limp still marring his gait. Vaan hoped he had shown such strength for Penelo; he hoped Reks' death had not claimed him as well.

And yet his fear for Penelo's disappearance increased with every moment he did not seek her out, prompting him to quickly trek across the city to Migelo's shop. He did not know how he would explain himself to Migelo, but he now realized that he could no longer put it off—he would have to take responsibility sooner or later, and procrastinating served only to strain his nerves even further. He passed through the public floor to the storage room where Migelo could most often be found, stopping only to greet a few of the city's younger orphans and to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught of guilty that Migelo always managed to effectively unleash on him.

The old man sat hunched over a small oaken desk, wearily reading over a letter of some kind. Vaan hadn't in years seen him so sullen, and it certainly wasn't his nature to be putting off his work at this time of day—normally, he'd be taking inventory while singing some jolly tune, or giving the duty to one of his "kids" while he chatted with customers. Vaan once again put aside his search and stepped up behind Migelo with quiet curiosity.

"…Something wrong?" he asked.

Migelo turned and sprung from the chair, pulling the boy into a somewhat overzealous embrace. "Vaan! Thank heavens you're alright! We were all worried sick about you."

"Hey, I'm fine…" He carefully dislodged himself, noting that Migelo still clutched the letter.

"Fine?" His expression quickly turned. "Don't be so sure. You're in big trouble, young man!"

Vaan hung his head. "Oh. Right."

"It was a downright blessing for us to receive such a kind consul! What were you thinking disrespecting him like that!?"

"Migelo…Look. I'm really sorry. I was just sick of the occupation, you know? This is our country, and…" He sighed with resignation. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"Embarrass me? My goodness, Vaan, you could never embarrass me! I was scared—that's all."

"I bet Penelo's embarrassed, though…"

"Oh…you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"…Vaan…don't take this the wrong way. I don't blame you—not one bit. It was while you were unconscious, when she was there in the crowd with you. One of those pirates—Balthier—he just grabbed her. I was too far away to intervene, or believe me, I would have, but, well…"

"What do you mean he 'grabbed' her!? I'm gonna clean his clock!"

"No, no, it's worse than that. He has a bounty on his head like I've never seen, and someone must have—well, look for yourself."

Migelo handed him the scrap of paper he had been wringing in his hands, and immediately Vaan knew he was in deeper than he could handle. The letter was intended for Balthier and signed by Ba'Gamnan, undoubtedly one of the headhunters that had come to the prison in search of him, and only a brief look at the content revealed such horrifying expressions as "trade off," "conditional surrender," and "your girl." Vaan's knees went weak.

"Oh, no…he thinks she's Balthier's girlfriend."

Migelo shook his head wearily. "She pushed him away and went running into the crowd, and I tried to follow her, but… Oh, if anything happens to that sweet girl—why, I've your parents' memory to consider."

"Migelo, it's not your fault," Vaan reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We're gonna fix this."

"Now, I don't want you involved, too…"

"If I hadn't been so stupid, none of this ever would have happened."

"Vaan…"

And then it hit him: the Law of Exchange. "I can talk to Balthier," Vaan assured Migelo. "We kind of got to know each other in prison. He's not exactly the greatest guy in the world, but I know he wouldn't want Penelo to get hurt because of him, and supposedly he has an airship, so it's really just a matter of guilting him into cooperating."

"A pirate? Are you sure?"

"Don't worry. It'll be fine."

"I shudder every time you say that."

Balthier's instruction had been quite accurate, for they found him lounging in the Sandsea Tavern with Fran, both casually ignoring the stares they received from the other customers. Finding a smart-mouthed Archadian in Rabanastre had lost its novelty long ago, but never before had a Viera set foot out of Golmore Jungle—much less into a seedy human bar—and the shock was more than evident. Vaan, however, had no interest in Fran's purpose any longer and directed his energy straight at her partner.

"Balthier!"

The pirate turned, unimpressed. "That was quick."

"We have a problem," Vaan continued, stepping up to them with Migelo close behind. "My sister was kidnapped." He held out the letter, which Balthier regarded disinterestedly before taking. "They think you've got a thing for her."

He ran his eyes over the scrawling threat, at last showing some expression of care. "The little blonde? I suppose anything's possible."

"Anything, indeed!" Migelo stepped forward. "If you hadn't felt the need to grope the nearest skirt, she'd be safe at home where she belongs!"

"I take it you're the proud father?" Balthier groaned, handing the letter off to Fran.

"Something of the sort," huffed Migelo.

Fran took one look at the paper and rolled her eyes with an exhausted sigh. "The gods are toying with us."

"So, let me get this straight," Balthier continued to Vaan. "I saved your life, busted you out of prison, and returned you safe and sound to your home, and now that I've been in town all of five minutes, you see fit to order me out on a half-assed rescue mission for some girl I hardly even know?"

"Damn it…Come on, Balthier. She's the nicest person in the world. She doesn't deserve this…"

"We'd pay you if we could," Migelo added. "There must be something we can do for you."

Balthier and Fran exchanged glances, but didn't seem to think on the subject for more than second. "Well," the pirate answered somewhat spiritedly, "your audacity is less than charming, but I just can't say no to desperation. Ba'Gamnan is a problem we've been meaning to deal with for some time now, anyway."

"What?" asked Vaan. "Just like that?"

"I've never been one for punishing the innocent." He stood and walked past Migelo, granting him only a passing glance. "If you really want to thank me, old man, you can pick up our tab."

"Hey!" Vaan clumsily took chase. "I'm coming with you!"

"Don't get yourself all worked up, Vaan," said Balthier. "We want you to come."

"…Why?"

"Because there's no way in hell the little lady's going to trust either of us."

"Oh. Right." He shrugged at a rather bewildered Migelo and followed them toward the door.

"Be careful," Migelo called.

The letter had instructed the pirates to come to the Lhusu Mines in the skycity of Bhujerba, which of course, was only reachable by airship. Once there, a trade would be made—Ba'Gamnan would take Balthier, and Fran would take Penelo. Clearly, Balthier would not be following this plan, but Vaan understood full well that neither would Ba'Gamnan, so having Vaan along for the ride gave Balthier a bit more edge, though it seemed unlikely that the bounty hunter would be alone.

Balthier, however, seemed but minimally concerned with such matters, and obliged Vaan's rampant inquiries with almost suspicious civility, though Fran made no effort to disguise her irritancy. Balthier explained the danger of the situation, but Vaan remained undeterred, explaining his unavoidable furor over any mishap that should befall his dear sister at the pirate's hands, but Balthier really didn't appear to care.

Presently, they reached Rabanastre's massive aerodome, one of the greatest airship docking stations in Ivalice (though it earned such fame only because the city had no sea port, and thus compensated for missed trade through increased air travel). Though people of many races milled about the area, loading and unloading transports, welcoming newly-arrived friends and family, seeing others off, and all other manner of activity that such a setting warranted, most seemed wary of Fran and Balthier—some having heard of their ferocity, no doubt, but most (Vaan assumed) unsettled by the sight of a Viera. Oddly, Vaan found his new notoriety quite rewarding.

The docking station the pirates led him to housed a magnificent Archadian vessel large enough to hold perhaps ten passengers comfortably, and twenty or so in a bind. Its surface sported a well-polished shine, painted with gold and red and a few touches of white, and its design invoked feelings of nobility, though the presence of its owners dispelled this air almost instantly. Stepping into the craft's shadow, Vaan couldn't help but release a dumbfounded "Whoa…" which got a proud smirk out of Balthier.

"This is the _Strahl_," he said casually, being quickly answered by Vaan:

"You really are a skypirate!"

"Well, the headhunters seem to think so."

And Fran added glibly: "You could buy your own ship for the price he fetches."

"So is she armed?" Vaan asked, looking over the ship giddily and daring to run his fingers along the satin-smooth side panel. "How fast is she?"

"Hey, don't touch my baby!" Balthier replied, typing a code into the keypad beside the door. "Come on in and see for yourself."

The entry ramp promptly lowered, and Vann followed him in, Fran right behind them. The _Strahl_'s innards proved no less awe-inspiring than its shell, holding a roomy cockpit and a well-equipped cabin, though Vaan felt somewhat disheartened by the overwhelming influence of Archadian décor built into it. Despite wielding a rather compact engine, the ship appeared armed to the teeth and then some, and Balthier's piloting would soon prove it to be as agile as the smallest of birds. The navigation systems were clearly quite advanced—military grade, at least—and its cargo hold yielded nearly twice as much as most others of ships so proportioned.

"Holy crap!" Vaan exclaimed, looking over the arsenal as he entered. "How can that little engine handle all this?"

"Brains over brawn, of course," Balthier replied.

"Why isn't your army using this stuff?"

"Latest model. Not even on the market yet. And I don't have an army."

"Thanks to Bal's ingenuity, this is the only model in existence," Fran added wryly.

"What?" Vaan scoffed. "You invented this, too?"

"No," said Balthier, "I'm afraid we owe this little beauty to a pair of attention-deficit maniacs over at Draklor. I had no choice but to rescue her."

"Sure."

Balthier and Fran took their seats in the cockpit, and Balthier gestured thoughtlessly to the second row. "Strap yourself in. She's a bit temperamental."

Vaan obeyed, and the pirates deactivated the gear lock and powered up the navigational controls. He had never been to Bhujerba, though he knew many who had, and for the time being found himself with no other choice but to trust Balthier and Fran to get him past the border patrol. Bhujerba had long been an ally of Dalmasca, and the treaties between the two now belonged to the Empire—most notably, rights to the magicite trade. The floating islands possessed the most extensive magicite mines in the world, and Archadia now held a near monopoly on the stones, taking the best to power their airships and other military craft, and then sending the remaining notable specimens to Archades and a few other cities of renown or royal favor, leaving the left-overs—the weakest stones—for the world market. However, with Vayne seated on the Dalmascan throne, Rabanastre at least would undoubtedly earn a claim to the higher end of this trade, and, with any luck, a ship bound out of it would be given little mind when passing into Bhujerba. As pirates, however, Fran and Balthier didn't seem willing to take any chances.

"The shortest way is over Dorstonis," Fran noted.

"The _shortest_ way?" asked Vaan.

Balthier clarified: "Shortest if you're looking to avoid any Imperial entanglements."

"Bhujerba isn't involved with the Empire," Vaan protested.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "She's free as can be. For now. I hear the Imperials have been massing there for the last week or so."

"Oh, no…" Vaan flopped back in his seat as the engines powered up.

"The latest says the flagship of the Eighth Fleet docked two nights ago," Balthier went on, checking the digital map on the control panel, which showed all too clearly that the main Bhujerban aerodomes had indeed been swamped with military-grade vessels. "Getting ready to shift the assignment of the Judges working Vayne's security detail, among other things," he mused.

"You must have some good connections…" said Vaan.

"Not particularly. Fran's just got big ears." At this Fran cast a glare his way, and he quickly corrected himself: "Ah—_good_ ears, I mean. Hold on."

The hatch in the ceiling rumbled to a stop, now open to the bright desert sky, and the _Strahl_ lifted agilely from the dock, then bucked as the engines throttled forward. Vaan clamped himself down in his seat, glaring at Balthier and Fran as they exchanged smirks, but decided against saying anything, resolved to just be grateful that they had agreed to help. Penelo, he knew, would not be in the least bit happy to have him rescue her alongside pirates, but the situation left little room for propriety or ethics. Costs didn't concern him; he was going to save his sister.


	6. Chapter 5

**Note:** Due to the persistence of an inside joke (Eat Pluto, Sandy!), "Lamont" has undergone a name change, so I'd like to apologize in advance to any canon-Nazis this might offend. Let's face it: Larsa is not a boy; Larsa is a girl named Lars. And for the record, his age was lowered as a part of his characterization, which I'm sure most would agree was dramatically lacking in the game. Please don't approach this character with any expectations!

_V._

Miserably unaware of her unwitting heroes was the poor maid, Penelo. To see her dear brother clapped in irons and knocked to the street unconscious upset her so that she could not bear to watch any longer, and thus she fled from the scene, pushing her way through the gathering crowd and seeking refuge in a secluded alleyway. It was here that she herself took a blow to the head, rendering her limp as a doll to be carried off for ransom. Upon awakening, she found her captors to be of the most vile nature—avarice-stricken headhunters, who stooped so low as to abduct an innocent girl to use as bait for the skypirate Balthier, whom she had never in her short life heard of. However, convincing the brigands of her ignorance served no end, for they only jeered at her pleas, taking every chance to mock their prey, hoping it might spur her supposed feelings for him enough to upset her. Upset her it did, but not for any affection they perceived.

She now sat shackled and shivering in an abandoned windowless work shed in the Lhusu Mines, deep within the core of Bhujerba's largest island. She had heard tales of the city—of its floating magicite mines. Many speculated that if one was to dig deep enough, a hole could be created stretching from the surface of the island to its nether regions—a theory she had laughed at until now. Every few hours she was given a large bowl of stew and some bread, but no bedding was granted to her, nor an extra layer of clothing to fend off the night's chill. There was only bland food and cruel comments, and then loneliness.

That is, until her savior arrived.

She had foremost expected Vaan, but knew he was of little use while in prison, and secondly expected Migelo, though he certainly hadn't the means for such a rescue. For a time she even pondered whether or not Balthier himself would come to her aid, but even if he did escape Nalbina, why would he care so much about her? In the end, it was none of these who abetted her—it was instead a young Archadian child, wandering about the mines on his own.

It was early morning, and she sat slumped on the cold floor, crying quietly. She had hardly expected anyone to hear her, but wary are the ears of those seeking to be lost, and a compassionate heart does but rarely pass by one in need of comfort. The call had been faint—so much so that it did not even echo—but the joy that it sent surging through her made it seem as a jovial shout in her ear.

"…Hello?"

"Hello!?" Penelo stood abruptly and galloped to the end of her chain. "Is someone there!?"

"Where are you?"

"Um…I don't know. In a shed, I think—or something like one."

"Hold on…"

She looked about frantically, eying the lamp left by the door, just out of her reach, finding nothing to aid her in making her location known, but thankfully, she didn't have to. The door rattled slightly, and she then heard the boy's voice on the other side:

"…It's locked."

"Locked?" she asked despairingly, the tears quickly returning.

"Yes. Can't you reach it?"

"I'm chained up…" she sobbed.

"Don't cry. I'll get you out somehow."

"No, no, you should leave. Th—they kidnapped me. If they come back…"

"Don't worry. I'm good at this sort of thing."

The small clicking noises that now came from the door proved his words true—he was quite efficiently picking the lock.

"Be careful," Penelo choked, clumsily wiping her eyes with iron-bound hands.

"Where are you from?"

"…What?"

"Your accent's awfully pretty, but I can't say I've ever heard it before."

"Oh…I'm Dalmascan."

"Oh, good. That's part of the Empire now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I was caught helping a Rozarrian a few months ago, and you wouldn't believe the trouble I got in."

She couldn't help but giggle awkwardly. For all her life she had been told that the Archadians were a savage, war-hungry people; she had never considered the fact they must all at some point have been children.

"Almost got it…" he said thoughtfully.

At last a distinctive _clack_ resounded in the caverns and the door to the shack creaked open, revealing its true weight and age. In stepped a hansom, gentle child with sleek (though somewhat shaggy) black hair and large, chocolaty eyes, who gazed at her with a soft smile, kind and curious, and spoke to her in a comfortingly confident tone:

"There. See? Nothing to worry about."

She smiled back, unsure of how to properly voice her gratitude, and held up her shackled wrists. "Except maybe these."

"Oh. Let me see." He entered the dim room and crouched next to her, carefully taking her hands in his to inspect the bindings. She, in turn, studied him warily, trying to pinpoint his exact age, and dreading what would become of him if Ba'Gamnan and his gang caught him. As far as she could tell, he was no more than eleven, though his vocabulary indicated otherwise, and he seemed to be a mite tall for his age. In truth, he looked a good deal like Vayne, but held a less grave countenance and a vastly different set of eyes. "Great," he groaned. "A Bunansa Clamp."

She blinked back more tears. "Huh?"

"I'm no good with these," he explained, leaning back and releasing his tender hold on her. "I can only do pin-barrels and pads."

A sudden noise echoed in the distance—a burst of laughter, by the sound of it—and Penelo turned to the Archadian boy frantically. "Get out of here!"

"What!?"

She pushed him to his feet, trying ineffectively to shoo him away. "I don't know what they'll do if they see you…"

He swiftly approached the door, momentarily relieving her, but then he shoved it shut and locked himself inside with her.

"What are you doing!?" she demanded.

"I don't know—but I'm not just leaving you here."

"Hey, don't think just because you're cute they're gonna let you off easy!"

"I am not cute!" His pouty glare claimed otherwise.

Cowed by frustration, Penelo gave up on trying to send the little dear to safety and began rearranging the numerous crates and boxes that cluttered the floor, creating a hollow among the shadows to conceal him. "Come on! Hide!"

The door burst open just as Penelo plopped herself back onto the grimy floor, and the three lumbering headhunters entered in a hail of abrasive laughter. Penelo winced at their smell and—being too focused on not looking suspicious—did not heed their conversation until one seized her slender arm with a bruising grip.

"God only knows what he sees in this horrid little twig."

"Ow! Hey!" She drew back, feeling for certain that the muscle had been separated from the bone.

"You've seen to her feeding, yes?" Ba'Gamnan asked.

"I have," his other lackey affirmed. "You wouldn't know it to look at her, but she eats well."

"See that she does. Balthier's bait must be fresh."

"Please…" she whimpered. "I barely even know who Balthier is!"

"Lies!" the first lackey snarled. "The _Strahl_ has arrived none the wiser. Balthier makes straight for the mines."

The Archadian boy stealthily peeked out from behind the crates and eyed the rusty ring of keys dangling from the nearest headhunter's belt. Penelo, though terrified, kept her eyes trained upward, so as not to draw attention to him.

"_Barely know_, was it?" Ba'Gamnan went on. "Yet at a trace he goes bounding off for you! Tell me, how could that be?"

"That's what I'd like to know!" Penelo cried. "I just met him that one time and that's it!"

"Does that tongue never stop!? What if we plucked it from your head?" With expert skill, the boy silently lifted the keys from their perch, then ducked back into hiding with a small display of clumsiness, for Ba'Gamnan spun quickly on his heel to face his comrades. "As for you, we need Balthier alive. His corpse fetches but half the bounty."

"A tender beating—my specialty!"

"There's no fun for it if we can't tease out a scream or two."

The door slammed with a rickety clatter, and a gruff scratching sound on the other side signaled that it had been relocked. As the booming voices quieted with distance, the little Archadian boy stepped out of hiding—along with a puff of dust that elicited coughs from them both.

"That was awesome!" Penelo whispered jovially.

"That was _close_," he corrected with a relieved smirk. "Here."

She sat up on her knees with a slight wince of pain and held out her hands. He seemed at first concerned by her small expression of discomfort, but seeing as how she failed to acknowledge it, he resolved not to bring it up and simply began trying keys in the irons, searching for the proper fit.

"You know," she said merrily, "you're quite the little hero."

"Isn't that a matter of opinion?" he asked with a shy smile.

"I suppose. So I guess that makes you _my_ hero."

He laughed and unlocked the first cuff. "I'm flattered."

"Well, unfortunately it's not a very well-paid position," she went on as he released the other. "Will my gratitude be enough?"

"What more could I possibly ask for?"

Penelo giggled and rubbed her wrists a little, noting with relief that the irons had left only slight bruises.

"Um…" The boy tilted his head uncertainly. "I don't mean any offense, but…were you lying to them?"

"Just now? No."

"So you're not Balthier's…"

"Oh, no, no, no! Ew!" She shook her head with a grimace, getting a small smirk out of him. "They just got the wrong idea. If he's really coming after me, I couldn't tell you why."

"Chivalry."

She laughed. "Can I take it you've heard of him, then?"

"Sort of. His mother kind of—replaced mine once in a while." He helped her up, but released her hand rather abruptly once she reached her feet. "…It's complicated."

"Oh. You sure it's the same Balthier?"

"It has to be. He stole the _Strahl_ about two hours after I finally got her to fly. And he's lucky he didn't blow himself up. That engine was about as stable as Dal—Sorry. Figure of speech."

She gave him a small understanding smile, then glanced toward the door expectantly. "Yeah, I know…We should probably get out of here pretty quick, you think?"

"Huh?" He seemed to have been momentarily mesmerized, standing raptly still and gazing up at her wistfully. He snapped out of it soon enough, however, and abandoned the keys on the floor beside the chains and manacles. "Oh. Right."

She giggled as they headed out of the shack, barely managing to suppress her urge to call him cute again. "My name's Penelo, by the way."

"I'm Monty."

"I'm glad to meet you, Monty, and I hope you won't think I'm patronizing you, but somehow I get the feeling you shouldn't be down here on your own."

He laughed. "That obvious?"

"Don't worry. It'll be our secret. But since you know why I'm here, it's only fair that I know why you are."

"Be warned—it's pretty boring."

"Try me."

"I'm doing research."

"What? That's not boring." She forced an apologetic smile across her face, though she knew it would not go without notice.

"You're too kind."

"Aw, come on," she pressed with as light a voice as she could manage. "What kind of research?"

Monty gave her a sly look, as though testing just how kind she could be, and then obliged her with subtle bemusement: "Molecular compatibility."

"…Oh."

"I told you it was boring."

A small giggle escaped her lips, though it appeared to satisfy his interests, and she continued with little thought and words she quickly regretted: "How old are you?"

All at once he abandoned the affable shine of his gaze and instead looked on her warily. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just curious," she defended.

"When I tell people how old I am, they tend to stop taking me seriously."

"That doesn't sound fair. As far as I can tell, you're smarter than I am. I'm guessing…twelve."

And at this he blushed slightly. "Uhh…ten, actually."

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "And you pick locks and fix airship engines and conduct scientific research?"

"It's…a hobby." He shrugged and cast a fleeting glance at her. "You're not gonna pat me on the head now and tell me to be a mechanic when I grow up, are you?"

"Of course not. Now are you gonna explain molecular compatibility to me or not?"

"You really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Alright, then. In a nutshell, I'm just trying to see if artificial magicite can hold energy the same way natural magicite does."

Penelo nodded. "Oh, I see. But that's gonna take a while, isn't it?"

"A few thousand years."

"Ah."

"But I'm testing a different kind of magicite—should be quicker."

"What kind?"

"Um…well, it's complicated. My friend, Cid—well, Doctor Cid, actually—he sort of tweaked the genetic make-up of magicite and made it into kind of the opposite. Watch your step."

He hopped down from a steep ledge and gripped her hand gingerly to lead her after him. She couldn't help but smile; such a gesture could but rarely be witnessed in Dalmasca, but Monty, Archadian that he was, thought nothing of it, quickly releasing her and continuing on:

"Magicite only has a certain amount of energy in it, and once that's gone, it's worthless. But the new fake stuff can absorb more energy and be used over and over again."

"Cool!"

"It's called nethicite. Still got a few kinks to work out, but hopefully once it's finished we can do away with magicite mining altogether."

"Wow! I can't believe all this isn't famous by now…"

"Well…it's not exactly legal."

"…What?"

"…The emperor…doesn't have much faith in science, so Cid's funding comes from—shady people."

"…Like who?"

"Vayne."

"Oh."

"Once it's ready for mass marketing, though…" Monty hesitated upon catching sight of the worrisome look on her face, then continued with a resigned sigh. "Well, like I said: it's complicated."

"Yeah," she answered. "I'll take your word for it this time."

The thickness of the conversation soon dwindled, for they at last happened by a sparkling vein of magicite that ran in loops through the stone wall of the cavern. "Oh, look," said Monty, taking a piece of what Penelo could only assume was nethicite out of his pocket. "It's about time. I've been down here for more than an hour and haven't found any."

Both stepped up to the wall and Monty held the nethicite against the shimmering ribbon of stone, but there appeared to be no reaction.

"It's not working?" Penelo asked.

"I guess not," he replied. But then, as if on cue, a translucent fog surged out of the wall, only to be quickly sucked up by the nethicite. "Whoa!" Monty jumped back a step. "Nevermind."

"Awesome!" exclaimed Penelo. "Let's find more!"

"It's warm…"

"Really?"

He held it out to her. "Feel."

Carefully taking it from him she found that it indeed emanated a pulsating heat, though the rhythm of the surges seemed to be lessening in strength and slowing in speed. A faint light, too, appeared to glow at the center of the crystal, first bright and then dim, and then flickering for a second or two. The stone no longer retained its color of black and gray, but radiated a deep emerald green, nearly turquoise at its depths, creating a mesmerizing lay of light on the surface. "Hm," she said, handing it back to him. "Maybe we shouldn't find more."

"Do you think it would—"

He was abruptly cut off by and ear-splitting whistle of a spark that leapt from the stone as it neared Penelo's skirt, sending her back with a yelp.

"Ow!" Monty quickly dropped the scorching rock and shook out his hand. "What was that?"

"I don't know…" Penelo warily approached the nethicite and looked it over, though she dared not touch it. "…Did I kill it?"

"Looks alright…" Monty replied, inspecting the stone from a distance as well. "I've never seen it react like that."

She patted herself down carefully, half looking for injuries and half looking for the cause of the shock. "Hey, wait a minute…" An inconspicuous lump seemed to magically appear out of the thick folds of her skirt, and at once she wondered what she could have left in her pocket and forgotten about so completely. Yet she found nothing familiar to her there—only a gleaming stone, hued as a mixture of garnet and hematite, though given to the nature of neither. "Where did this come from?" she asked, too bewildered to acknowledge the daftness of such an inquiry.

"Don't ask me," replied Monty.

"…Oh, no."

"What's wrong?"

"Ah, Vaan!" Shaking her head, she released a groan of utter frustration. "This is the reason those creeps kidnapped me!"

"Slow down…" He took the nethicite from the ground where it had been dropped in the commotion, noting that though it had cooled enough to touch, it still held a muted heat about it.

"My—my brother, Vaan," she explained, "he got himself into some trouble a few days ago, and ended up being arrested with those pirates. That Balthier guy—he grabbed me and…he must have slipped this into my pocket so the Imperials wouldn't confiscate it."

Monty raised a suspicious eyebrow. "He stole it?"

"I guess so. Oh, I'm gonna be in so much trouble…"

"Just give it back to whoever he stole it from. It's not your fault."

"I can't," she whined, staring despairingly at the stone. "This is the Dusk Shard; he stole it from the palace."

Monty appeared not to comprehend the severity of the situation, though his voice did ring of comfort. "Dalmasca's part of Archadia now—just give it to Vayne."

"He'll think I stole it. Besides, security is through the roof in Rabanastre right now; we can't just walk up to the consul."

"Maybe _you_ can't."

She cocked her head curiously, but before any further words could be spoken, footsteps sounded beyond a nearby corner and Vaan's voice called out:

"Penelo?"

She turned quickly, and then shoved the stone back into her pocket and galloped toward him as soon as he entered her sight. "Vaan!"

They embraced with childish enthusiasm, setting Monty a bit on edge, but Penelo's fright quickly resurfaced, though she managed to withhold her tears.

"It's okay," Vaan assured her. "We're okay."

"It was so scary…" she replied softly.

Balthier and Fran caught up to the reunion, but kept their distance, mainly out of disgust.

"Well," Balthier groaned, "it can't have been too bad if you're running free."

"Hey," said Penelo, releasing Vaan and stomping up to the pirate, "I don't know how you got out of prison, but I'm sending you straight back."

"Why?" he asked. "Because I didn't hug you like Prince Charming here? Hold still, missy."

He pulled her into a forceful embrace, but it didn't last long.

"Get your hands off me, sicko!" She shoved him back with surprising force, then felt for the pocket of her skirt, noting with relief that the stone still laid safely hidden there.

"Mmmm…feisty!" Balthier mused.

"Jerk!"

She landed a firm slap on his shoulder, but he made no attempt to chide her for it, and in fact didn't even appear to notice it, for his eyes had become intently fixed on Monty. "…Now what have we here?"

The boy stepped back as Balthier advanced on him, but soon made contact with the stone wall behind him and looked to Penelo for assistance. "…Penelo…"

"Hey!" She lurched forward, but Fran grasped her arm and held her fast. "Leave him alone!"

"You got awfully big awfully fast," Balthier told Monty with almost fatherly suspicion.

"How's the _Strahl_?" Monty replied.

"Still a brat, though, aren't you? Now, the way I see it we have only two options: I can either cut your little throat and forget this ever happened, or I can take you back to the Judges and forget this ever happened. Unfortunately, the second is dependent on your ability to keep your mouth shut."

"I—I won't tell anyone! You can trust me!"

"I'm not entirely sure I can."

Vaan approached the two with disbelieving concern. "Balthier! What's wrong with you!?"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "Once again, the ignorance of Dalmasca's citizens outdoes itself." He turned to face Vaan, gripping Monty's collar and pulling him up front as though directing an unruly sheep to be sheared. Monty squirmed, but was no match for Balthier's strength. "Allow me to introduce Lamont Ferrinas Solidor," the pirate continued, "the emperor's youngest son and your consul's little brother." He mussed the boy's hair with mock affection. "They start out awfully cute, don't they?"

Monty kicked his heel into Balthier's shin, prompting the pirate to momentarily slacken his grip so he could sprint to Penelo's open arms.

"Oh, shut up!" she growled. "I don't care about his bloodline; he saved my life."

"Only because he's too young to understand politics," Balthier sneered.

Monty glared as though he was ready for a fight, but still held Penelo's hand fast in his. "I understand just fine—and my father says only cowards threaten children."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Balthier.

"It means Doctor Cid was right about you."

There was a pause, then, in which Balthier seemed to consider the statement with genuine concern, but a gristly shout soon broke the silence:

"You kept us waiting, Balthier!"

All turned to see the bounty hunters advancing on them as hungry beasts on wounded prey.

"You slipped away in Nalbina—we've missed you."

"And you've caught an Imperial prince, have you? He's got the smell of money about him—I may have to wet my beak a little."

"The boy is my business," Balthier growled. "Keep your snout in the trough where it belongs."

Ba'Gamnan grit his teeth and effectively delivered a piercing glare. "Too long have I gone unpaid! The only question now is which of you will fetch a higher price."

"Hey, back off," said Vaan. "Your problem's with us!"

"Us?" Balthier and Fran asked in unison.

One of Ba'Gamnan's lackeys placed a hand on his hip as if in deep consideration. "I say we nab the kid while the time's upon us. Come back for the ass later."

"Aye," the other agreed. "Once in a lifetime, this opportunity."

"You're disgusting!" cried Penelo.

"Now, now," Ba'Gamnan replied impishly, "what are you doin' out of your kennel?"

Monty quickly released her hand and stepped in the headhunter's path. "Stay away from her!"

"Monty!" Balthier growled.

"Or what?" Ba'Gamnan interrupted. "Your daddy will sic his hounds on me?"

"You're not worth the effort," said Monty.

"Bold words, child…" Ba'Gamnan thrust out a hand to seize the prince, but he dodged the grab and let the bewildered bounty hunter fall flat on his face at Penelo's feet. One of Ba'Gamnan's accomplices attempted to subdue Monty, but was promptly disabled by a hard elbow to the gut, and Penelo inadvertently stalled Ba'Gamnan's recovery by trampling him while rushing to Monty's aid. The third headhunter came after Penelo with sword drawn, but barely even made it in range before being knocked in the head by Doctor Cid's manufactured nethicite. Monty took hold of Penelo's hand with a quick "Come on!" then led her out of the cavern at a blind gallop, slowing only to stoop slightly and swipe the nethicite off the ground where he had thrown it.

They were soon out of sight, and though Vaan and the pirates made to follow, Ba'Gamnan and his comrades quickly regained their footing and blocked the exit.

"Ah, let them run!" Ba'Gamnan sneered. "Why keep the bait when you've landed the fish?"

"Landed?" Balthier asked, sliding his sword out of its sheathe. "I think you mean cornered."

Monty and Penelo slowed their escape upon hearing the clash of steel echo behind them, and despite the clear visibility of the hazy yellow glow that signified the mine's exit, Penelo halted and looked back into the darkness, even taking a few uncertain steps into the cave before Monty caught her attention.

"They'll be alright."

"But he's never actually—"

"Balthier will look after him; that's what he does."

"I have to go back."

"And let Balthier have the Dusk Shard?"

"Well…"

Noting her indecision, Monty stepped closer to her. "…I could take it."

"What!?" She drew back immediately, stricken by memories of Vayne's ferocity towards the Resistance. Despite the hurt in Monty's eyes, she couldn't manage to put her thoughts in check. Give Dalmasca's national treasure to Archadian royalty? It seemed ludicrous, and yet ten minutes ago she wouldn't have hesitated to hand the stone over. Monty, however, appeared to understand this before she could muster the words to explain or apologize, and spoke before she had the chance to do either:

"…Fine. You decide."

He turned and walked coldly away, and she looked sullenly to the darkened end of the mines, listening as the racket died down to only a few swords. Clutching the Dusk Shard through the fabric of her skirt, she at last came to the conclusion that if Balthier was truly as notorious a pirate as he appeared to be, he would have no trouble fending off a few ill-tempered bounty hunters, and if Monty was truly a royal prince, he would certainly be accustomed to undue judgment, and would therefore be in need of a real friend. She sighed. Vaan would understand—maybe not right away, but he always came around eventually. She turned to the mouth of the cave and left.

She halted abruptly, however, upon reaching the cave's exit, for several yards in front of it stood the leader of Bhujerba, Marquis Halim Ondore IV, half a dozen high ranking Archadian soldiers, and a tall armored figure that seemed the accumulation and embodiment of all the nightmares of her childhood. Even more unsettling, however, was Monty's exuberance in approaching the two figures, for even as she gaped in awe at the scariest metal beast of a man she had ever beheld, the child broke his cold-hearted gait and bounded fearlessly ahead—not terrified, but relieved.

"Ghis!"

The Judge turned and scolded his master in a low, thundering voice: "Well, for God's sake! There you are!" He placed a heavy hand on Monty's head and gave him a patronizing pat, much to the boy's annoyance.

"You didn't have to come looking…" he groaned, ducking out of the gesture.

Ondore smiled understandingly. "What do you expect when you leave your entire cortege locked in a bathroom?"

"I'm sorry," Monty replied, returning the smile. "I was running an errand for Doctor Cid."

"That man has an ill mind, My Lord," said Ghis. "Can't you find sounder playmates?"

Seeing Penelo standing hopefully at the edge of the mine, he smiled brightly. "I certainly can. Penelo!"

She hesitated for only a moment before trotting out into the open. The echoing footsteps behind her seemed an effective prompt, but the stronger force presented in Monty's glistening walnut eyes—he knew the Dusk Shard was in danger so long as it remained within the reach of the skypirates, and—deep down—she knew that he sought only to help.

Her pursuers arrived mere moments too late, and stuck close to the shadows while watching her walk merrily away under royal protection. Vaan's first instinct told him to follow, but the presence of a Judge put him in his place. Clearly, if Balthier and Fran weren't willing to contend with such a figure, he shouldn't either.

"We can bargain with Ghis," Fran said icily.

Balthier watched intently as his prey disappeared in the distance, but didn't look to be at all deterred. "We no longer have any need to."

"What!?" Vaan demanded.

"Your sister is safe, Ba'Gamnan is dead—mission accomplished." The pirate tilted his head back casually and stepped out into the sunlight. "We'll drop you off back at Rabanastre if you'd like."

"Hey!" Vaan glared, but managed to keep himself sufficiently restrained. "We can't just leave her with a bunch of Archadian high-horses!"

"Ah, Monty doesn't count."

"I believe he will treat her well," Fran answered with a small smile of admiration toward Balthier.

"Nobody knows men like Fran does," he added.

Vaan let out a sigh. Monty wasn't the one he was worried about.

Penelo soon found that the rather large number of soldiers milling around as they walked was attributed just as much to Marquis Ondore as to Monty. With the world in its current state, people of power couldn't simply walk about in public unprotected—or even minimally protected. The soldiers, however, kept a polite distance, and it was the Judge who made Penelo's hands tremble.

Ghis was not Monty's usual caretaker; he was in fact the leader of Archadia's Eighth Fleet, forerunner of the western armada, and served the military with only two superiors—Prince Vayne and Emperor Gramis. While his strong discipline and steadfast attention to detail would seem to make him a perfect babysitter, unfortunately, Ghis didn't know the usual ritual Monty practiced when saying goodbye to his bodyguards for a lengthy period. Drace would lecture him tediously on proper behavior and growing up and so on and so forth, and Gabranth would simply ask, "Will you be good while I'm gone?" to which Monty would unwaveringly reply, "Not at all." "That's my boy," came next, along with a pat on the head, and Drace would commence lecturing Gabranth.

Ghis was also unaware of the detailed reports that Vayne expected of Monty. While a good scolding typically came first, the brothers would then spend hours laughing over Monty's adventures in escaping his guardians—particularly the substitutes. Their next meeting would be quite uproarious, for in the two weeks that Ghis had been watching over the prince, he had lost him eight times.

This hung over the Judge's head like a swollen storm cloud, though, for even without knowing the exact process by which information was passed, it was well known among the higher ranking Judges that any grievance against Monty was returned threefold by his brother. Indeed, one of the boy's first memories was of Vayne coming to see him in his room when he was very small. The rest of the scene had faded into the blotchy fog of early memory, but he remembered how tall his brother seemed—how imposing. Vayne was angry about something, and it made him vivid, intense, the rest of the room dim and faded behind him.

"Not you," he had said, "no matter how they try. _You'll_ be safe."

Monty remembered how bright his eyes were, how warm his hands. After he left, the nurse-maids fluttered around the room cleaning and straightening things, as if they could banish the impression he made.

Monty had witnessed Vayne's "moods," but Ghis had witnessed his temper, and therefore kept himself distanced from Monty. Though he did seem quite fond of the boy, he clearly detested his penchant for adventure, a feeling reciprocated on Monty's part in regards to Ghis's no-nonsense approach to babysitting. At one point in the conversation, Penelo thought for sure that Ghis would smack Monty upside the head, and reveled at the thought of Monty returning the gesture in the same manner he dealt with the bounty hunters. But Ghis was too disciplined for that, and maintained his professional relationship to the prince as best he could.

The marquis, however, seemed to be rather good friends with Monty by the tone of their conversation. Penelo, too, found herself to be a bit partial to him, for, after all, his older sister had served as Dalmasca's queen for many years, via a marriage treaty that involved exclusive trade rights to Bhujerba's coveted magicite. Of course, these rights now belonged to Archadia. She remembered vividly his address to the people of Dalmasca two years ago, bidding them surrender with dignity, assuring them that the Kingslayer had himself been slain, and that House Solidor would welcome them into the Empire, just as it had Landis and Nabradia. She had sat close at Vaan's side, pressing her damp cheek against his shoulder, just listening. The princess had been buried the day before—Reks two days before that. Like all the rest of Dalmasca, she and Vaan would not have listened to anyone but the marquis—the closest thing to royalty that they had anymore.

Marquis Ondore now held one of only four positions that commanded authority over a sovereign land. The other three belonged to Emperor Gramis, of Archadia, Emperor Margrace, of Rozarria, and the Gran Kiltias, who ruled over the holy mountain, Bur-Omisace—a neutral summit utilized throughout history to house refugees and facilitate peace negotiations. But judging by the number of Imperials in the streets and the rate of magicite export, it seemed that Bhujerba was not so sovereign anymore. Penelo began to wonder if Ondore was indeed worthy of her admiration.

Yet, as he led them through the cobblestone streets of Bhujerba, regardless of his allegiances, Penelo couldn't help but wonder if it would be possible for her to escape. Not to just run off, of course, but to leave the Dusk Shard in Monty's care and seek out Vaan—second thoughts she had hoped to leave behind in the Lhusu Mines. She wanted nothing to do with Imperials; sweet little Monty enthralled her, but she could not bear to face his brother, or—God forbid—his father. She could not bear to look into the eyes of the man who ordered her country's siege—her brother's murder. This would be the first of many times that she wished Monty wasn't who he was.

She wondered if it would be possible to just be his friend. She really did like him, and he didn't appear as though he was entirely aware of what it meant to be royalty. If things could just be as they were in the mines…but she knew it wouldn't work. She would have to accept the whole of his being, and that, she feared, she simply could not handle. Watching Vayne from a distance had uprooted her nerves enough, and coming so close to him after the fete had done nothing short of sending chills up her spine. Yet, there was still the question of how Monty figured into the Solidor family and its intrigues.

As Penelo recalled, Vayne was originally the youngest prince, but had about twelve or thirteen years ago become the oldest, thanks to the brutality of Rozarria's first attack on Archadia. Their mother, too, was long dead, lost to suicide after learning of her elder sons' untimely demise—but Penelo had heard very little in regards to the Emperor's second wife. She knew she was young, and that she died little more than a year into the marriage, but a fourth prince held no place in Penelo's memory—truly, given the age gap, he seemed more likely to be Vayne's son than Gramis's.

And yet, now knowing the truth, it appeared painfully obvious that he should be a prince. True, his youth and demeanor lent him some leeway, but he did nevertheless have a somewhat royal air about him: his posture was stately and confident—he had likely been trained in fencing since he was old enough to stand—and his intellect indicated extensive schooling. His manner, too, was quite suggestive of his lineage. Though she had at first simply passed it off as the typical chivalry that all Archadian males were expected to display, there was something oddly charming in how he gently took her hand as they ascended the stairs leading to the Marquis's estate, and how he softened his tone when speaking to her, like a proper Archadian gentleman. She imagined that she should have guessed he was at least of wealthy blood, but she remained admittedly shocked. That such a lamb of a child could be bred of the great House Solidor—could be raised by the fearsome Emperor Gramis—twisted her thoughts beyond a simple feeling of surprise to one of anger and even jealousy. It did not seem fair that the most evil man in the world should have Monty for a son. And it seemed even less fair that poor Monty should have Gramis for a father.

But by the looks of things, the emperor had done no damage to Monty yet, for he did not appear to know anything but compassion, stirring hopes in Penelo's heart that whatever it was that made Gramis Gramis would not make Monty Gramis as well. In fact, the boy took more after Marquis Ondore by Penelo's measure, and seemed to easily resist Ghis' influence. When they at last arrived at the drawing room on the midlevel of Ondore's estate, she was given quite an impressive demonstration of this.

"Well," said the marquis, "I'm afraid I have work to do. I trust you two can keep yourselves busy around here."

Ghis put a hand on his hip and replied tiredly, "Princes do not keep busy, Marquis."

"Ghis…" Monty groaned.

"Oh, surely you can trust him for an hour or so," the marquis went on. "Would it not it be wise for you to supervise the _Leviathan_'s refueling? I hear there were some technical issues this morning."

Ghis remained emotionless behind the steel helmet. "This comes before the _Leviathan_."

"He's got a point, Ghis." Monty stepped in. "She's old. You should give her a tune up."

"She's just fine," Ghis growled.

"She sounds downright asthmatic when you start her up," Monty insisted.

"Then why don't you take a look?"

"And bore Penelo with a bunch of mechanical nonsense? Not very gentleman-like."

"Come now, Your Honor," Ondore continued smoothly. "How much trouble could they possibly get into on their own for a few minutes?"

The Judge went still for a moment, staring silently at the marquis, and even through the mask of metal, Penelo imagined she could see the glare of disbelief on his face. Monty seemed to tense, but hid it well, and the marquis appeared utterly amused by the heaviness of the situation. After a long moment of frigid consideration, Ghis agreed:

"…Very well, then. Captain Horner will remain here in the hall if you need anything."

"Alright," said Monty.

"And guards will be posted at all of the estate's doors."

"_Alright_."

"And windows."

"Goodbye, Ghis."

"And you had better still be here when I return."

"Have I ever let you down before?"

The Judge paused for a moment, looking over the boy critically before at last striding down the hall and out of sight. Monty rolled his eyes and opened the door for Penelo, whispering "thank you" to the marquis as she passed through. He responded with a smile and a wink, and Monty closed the door, then headed across the room to lift the drapes that shrouded the many high-paneled windows.

"What's the deal with him?" Penelo asked with an exhausted smile.

"Ghis? He's just too cautious for his own good." He drew back the curtains, letting a burst of light stream through across the floor. "Part of the job description, I'm afraid."

She began uncovering the windows from the opposite end of the room. "And what job is that?"

"He's a Judge."

"A Judge?"

"Yes. They handle the courts and Senate and military and everything. Usually they just protect us, though."

"Like bodyguards?"

"Exactly. But he's just temporary; normally Gabranth and Drace follow me around. You'd like them. They're crazy."

"Where are they? I wanna meet them."

"Tough luck. They were reassigned to Vayne for his first few days in Rabanastre. But I'm going there tomorrow, so hopefully I can ditch Ghis. He's such a geezer."

An abrupt peel of laughter escaped her lips, and though she at first attempted to stifle it, he soon joined her.

"Sorry," he said. "I suppose that was pretty rude…"

"Oh, no, I was thinking the same thing." Seeing that only one window panel remained shut and Monty had already set to work on it, she sat on a nearby settee with a bounce, noting with some degree of shock that her feet pained her greatly. A quick recollection reminded her that she had been walking for quite some time and hadn't slept well for even more, but this seemed oddly inconsequential to her now.

Out the vast strip of windows hovered countless translucent clouds, pierced by sun rays and occasionally puffed apart by small white birds whose breed she couldn't identify. The floating island held them aloft in an endless swirl of cerulean sky, and the hazy horizon appeared to bob gently, making it difficult to tell the time of day. Monty pushed the spotless glass pane of one of the windows open and leaned out a bit, surveying the gardens below and making note of his guards' positions. Already Penelo could tell they would not be staying put for long—he had something planned.

It didn't seem right somehow. In Rabanastre, she eternally looked up from the proverbial gutters, reaching endlessly for a height she'd thought unattainable. Monty thought nothing of looking down. He wanted down.

"Anyway," he said, "I can take you back with me if you want. I'll introduce you, and you can see that the Dusk Shard is taken care of, then we'll find your home."

"That shouldn't be too hard," she replied with a smile. "Rabanastre is my home."

"Really?" he asked hopefully, losing interest in the window and meeting her eyes. "Is Vayne doing a good job so far?"

She smiled apprehensively. Staring up at her were the biggest, brownest eyes she had ever seen—to fill them with tears would surely be an unforgivable sin. "Well," she said slowly, "I don't really know—it's too soon to tell."

"Oh. Right." He smiled shyly and headed over to a pantry in the corner, finding it locked shut. "He was really nervous about it, you know? I've got a feeling Father is testing him."

"Testing him how?"

"To make sure he'll be a good emperor."

"That's awfully morbid…"

"I thought so, too, but Father likes to be prepared. One moment of weakness and Rozarria will rush all their armies across the border." He made quick work of the lock and began pulling various bed sheets and tablecloths out of the many piles held behind the ornate wooden door.

"Hm." She crossed her ankles daintily. "Well, from what I _do_ know about your brother, I don't think that will be too much of a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"A bunch of insurgents attacked the palace a while ago, and he had it all taken care of in about fifteen minutes."

He momentarily ceased his rummaging. "Nobody told me about that!"

"They probably just didn't want to worry you," she assured him. "I was there, though; Vayne handled it all perfectly."

"Good. There are a lot of people just waiting for him to mess something up."

"Why? So you'll be Emperor?"

He laughed and dragged a heap of linens over to her. "Of course not. Nobody even knows I exist. Father doesn't want me to rule." He sat beside her and began tying the yards of fabric together at the ends. "And I'm glad; I don't want to inherit a war."

"Yeah, good point." She caught on quickly and began tying corners as well.

"Everyone just wants a leader who will get Rozarria out of the way and be done with it," Monty continued casually. "They don't like the way Father's handling Bhujerba, and if Vayne goes easy on Rabanastre, they'll complain to the Senate. I don't really know how it all works. I think Vayne's going to be a great emperor, though. He lives for responsibility."

"Hmm…" Penelo hesitated. She, like all other civilians, had been under the impression that Vayne stood to be House Solidor's lone heir. This changed things considerably, but Monty seemed unaware of his own position, now afraid that her silence was equivalent with disapproval.

"…You don't like him?" he asked quietly.

"Well…" Her gaze turned to the floor uncertainly.

"The first duty of the consul is to maintain order, right?" he went on. "Vayne doesn't like failure. Maybe things aren't going as well as they might be, but give him a little time and he'll make everything right. Father always tells me my brother is a remarkable man."

"He frightens me."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry." Setting the linen ropes aside, she nervously gripped the hem of her skirt. "I shouldn't talk like that. It's just—you don't understand how much we lost to the war. My friends, my parents…Having an Archadian in charge is like…I don't know. No matter how nice he is to us, it's just hard to trust him."

"So you're afraid of Archadia?"

She swallowed hard, but could think of nothing to say. He obviously admired his brother, and yet she was at a loss for the proper words to be used in explaining war and occupation to him without outright disrespecting Vayne. On some level, though, he appeared to understand, for he knelt at her feet and placed his hands on hers, and looking up at her with wide, solemn eyes, spoke far beyond his years: "Listen to me. The men of my family—we are taught to place the needs of others before our own. I won't let anything happen to you. I give you my word—my brother would do no less."


	7. Chapter 6

VI

_VI._

The black marble halls of Archadia's royal palace proved a stark contrast to the vibrant soapstone of Dalmasca's. Gabranth had never felt at home in such places, and found the palace no better than the depths of Nalbina without Monty's laughter echoing through it, but a royal summons could not be ignored, and at the very least, it got him away from Vayne for a few days.

The aged leader of the Archadian Empire had since the first day of his rule been practical but hardline, keeping with an expansionist doctrine and sometimes using excessive force to achieve his goals. However, ever since Monty's birth, he seemed to increasingly regret his past actions—to the point now that he ceased his march toward global mastery altogether. The people had begun to lose faith, thinking their nation's power to be dwindling with their ruler's, and the Senate stewed in discontentment, eager to finish off Bhujerba and ready the final strike against Rozarria.

Having already lost his homeland to the emperor, Gabranth cared little whether or not he continued his conquest, but his nerves nevertheless shook him deeply, for these days Gramis only called for an audience with him when the younger prince was involved. Though he knew the most likely reason for the summons had to do with Monty's safety in Rabanastre, there remained a chance that Basch's escape would come up, which could be disastrous considering he had lately grown to dread being reassigned even without the past as a factor. The emperor was old and weak, and Drace outranked Gabranth. Should Monty be orphaned, Gabranth feared he may never see him again.

Perhaps of greater secrecy than Monty's existence was his father's imminent death. In the past year, Gramis had fallen sick, and try as the royal physicians might, he simply did not recover. The illness would invariably claim him—it had come down to only a question of when—but the Senate remained ever future-oriented, focused purely on naming a successor. The Senate feared Vayne—they called him capable, but peregrine. They preferred a young, fledgling emperor, but Gramis could not burden his Monty with such power. He insisted that the boy would never be revealed to the public, that he would not rule, that he would live as a noble and nothing more, but even he could see Lamont's talent for the family business, and the pressures of the Senate grew more and more acceptable with each passing day.

Gabranth himself had no love for Vayne, but he did not want to see Monty forced onto the throne, and furthermore, Monty so adored his brother that the Judge could do him no harm, though Drace seemed to have grown past this sentiment as of late. But Gabranth knew better than to ask, and he knew his partner would only leave him in the dark for his own protection—and besides, his duty was to protect Monty; all else came second, if at all. If Monty was to rule, that was out of Gabranth's control.

The emperor welcomed him home—a gesture that still set a tremble in the Landisian's heart—and commenced the general inquiries pertaining to Vayne's performance thus far and the reaction of the citizenry, eventually skirting over the topic of Doctor Cid's adventures at the Draklor Laboratories, which had of late garnered considerable interest in the nobles of Archades. Gabranth reported what he could—what Monty had told him—making certain to point out the financial benefits of establishing an artificial magicite trade, as well as the open possibilities of nethicite, which he specified already powered half of the Western Armada with astonishing efficiency. The Western Armada (being Vayne's former unit) held little interest for Gramis, but he did seem somewhat concerned with the origin of the lab's funding—though Doctor Cid was an esteemed member of the nobility, it did not seem as though any single nobleman could toss around so much money on ventures with such minimal odds of success. Foreseeing this question, Gabranth went about explaining as politely as he could:

"I have confirmed he receives funds from Lord Vayne, but their methods of acquiring supplies are too well hidden at this point to be given any certain judgment. Drace feels that Bergan may know more, but we're still in dark where he is concerned."

"…How could Vayne continue this?" the emperor asked dismally. "He and Judge Zecht were so close…"

"So we all thought," Gabranth answered with a nod. "He has likely been aiding Cid from the beginning. I'm afraid his agency in the fall of Nabudis is also certain, but with Zecht missing, the truth remains difficult to ascertain."

"Missing…" Gramis shook his head with a miserable smile. "If Zecht is not dead, he is surely in league with Vayne."

"After what befell Nabudis," said Gabranth, "there is little reason to assume he still lives. And even so, such a thing speaks low on Vayne's part."

"I have gone two years with the hopes that Vayne knew nothing of Nabudis."

"Perhaps he didn't. His fleet aided the attack, but there is no proof he was involved with the nethicite."

"Yet he funds Cid. Is that not proof enough?" He turned his gaze to the sunlight that filtered through the high windows, setting the imposing room alight in jewel tones as the day drew to its close. "The long, cold years have clouded my eyes," he admitted quietly. "I cannot see my own son's heart."

Gabranth's tone briefly softened, though he knew with perhaps too much certainty that effective assurance remained ever and always above his skill. "Sire, it could very well be that Vayne supports the science program for Lamont's benefit. You know how he loves the lab."

"A possibility," Gramis admitted, "but I nevertheless feel that there is no one left in this empire I might trust."

"What has left that impression?" Gabranth nearly choked, realizing the impropriety of questioning his master, but Gramis greeted the inquiry with a weak smirk.

"Ah, that Landisian boldness…I'd all but forgotten its strength since the war."

"Apologies, My Lord."

"Perhaps you might put it to use for me? I've received several questionable reports on Judge Ghis over this past year—even Monty says his loyalty wanes. What do you think?"

He cocked his head, painfully aware that such a gesture caused him to take on a puppy-like appearance when masked by the royal armor. "Highness…are you asking me to gossip?"

"No, Gabranth, I'm ordering you to gossip. It has been many years since Ghis led my security, and I no longer know him as well as I once did."

"Lord Vayne works with him far more than I ever—"

"I feel just as you do about Vayne. I am asking for your opinion, nothing more."

"…I don't trust Ghis with Monty. As for other matters, I cannot say."

"Hm." He stepped up to the nearest window, studying the setting sun. "You would trust no one with Monty but yourself."

The Judge nodded. "And Drace."

"And me?"

"You're his father…"

"But you don't trust me."

"Of course I trust you."

"Just not with Monty."

"Sire, please…"

"Ah, do not worry." He awarded him a small smile, though it quickly faded. "Your devotion is just as Drace described it, and just as I prefer it." With this, he began to cough haggardly, and Gabranth stepped forward with clear hesitance.

"My Lord…"

The emperor waved a dismissive hand, and continued with a weak rasp. "…Gabranth, I must be honest: I have often doubted your loyalty…"

"Why? Your Excellency, I have pledged my life to—"

"I am aware, but Judges have fled before, and it remains fact that once in the past, I laid siege to your homeland."

"The Republic of Landis is long since gone," Gabranth insisted, shaking his head. "My allegiance lies wholly with the Empire."

"Perhaps." Gramis' voice grew a bit stronger. "But what of your brother? He did not accept us as you did—he fled to Nabradia. Did you never think to follow him?"

"I follow his every move. We should have executed him long ago."

"Do you truly think so?"

"I would do it myself."

The emperor pondered this for a moment, though Gabranth could not tell if he thought high or low of such a statement, and instead noticed to his own detriment that the glow of the sun's demise vivified the red carpet on which they stood.

"So, you would kill even your own brother for the Empire…" Gramis at last stated slowly. "…Your ruthlessness is not without merit, but it must not become this way with Lamont. You must ensure that it does not."

Gabranth resisted cocking his head once more—it reminded him too greatly of Basch. "…Why would it?"

"…House Solidor has seen many tragedies in these recent years—two sons and two wives I have lost. But you have witnessed for yourself the joy that Monty has brought me—that he has brought us all." A few more coughs interrupted him, grating on the timbre of his voice and leaving a subtle wheeze in their wake. "These halls had gone so long without laughter that I nearly forgot the sound of it…But the time draws near when Vayne's jealousy should return."

"You believe he would be threatened by even a younger brother?" the Judge asked.

"He does not have to be threatened," said Gramis. "He must merely feel that he is. The choice of who shall succeed me is mine to make, and I will make it when I sense that the time is right. Until then, Lamont's safety wavers. I now see that you are worthy of my trust, Gabranth; it is my wish that you remain in Lamont's cortege alongside Judge Drace."

"So then you ask me to be his sword?" he asked, withholding a sigh of relief. "To strike where he might not?"

"Rather be his shield," said Gramis, "and keep your close watch on Vayne; his is the keenest blade of all."

Gabranth nodded. "I understand."

"I will be indebted to you for this. I could not bear to see my sons war with each other again." And with this, the emperor was once again seized in a fit of coughs that echoed against the thick marble floors, sending the chill of incumbent death throughout the palace.


	8. Chapter 7

_VII._

"Oh, my God! It's Basch Ronsenburg! Praise be the Imperial courts! Basch lives!"

"Shut up, you little—"

"Tell us Basch! What was it like to kill the king? Did he beg for his life?"

"Fran?"

Fran rolled her eyes and started toward Vaan, but the boy quickly took hold of Balthier's collar and pulled him between himself and the Viera.

"Wait—didn't Marquis Ondore say you were dead?" Vaan asked loudly while Balthier pushed him away. "Was he lying to us? Is Ondore working with Archadia?"

"Vaan," Balthier warned, noting the gathering crowd, "shut it, or I'll shut it for you."

Vaan stepped back. "What's wrong, Basch? You're an Archadian hero! Aren't you proud?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Before Balthier could land his punch, he was restrained by two Bhujerban men, who eyed him suspiciously and questioned him in low, harsh tones.

"Captain Ronsenburg, is it?"

"What?!" Balthier squirmed. "No! He's out of his pathetic little mind!"

Vaan laughed before being apprehended himself. Fran looked ready to jump, but clearly wasn't willing to risk it in broad daylight with hordes of Imperials walking the streets.

"He doesn't sound Landisian," one of the men whispered.

"Well, we don't sound Dalmascan," the other replied.

Balthier groaned. Vaan's plan had worked. A little too well.

Seeing his sister taken from him once again, Vaan had decided to enlist the aid of the Resistance—he would tip them off about little Monty if they agreed to return Penelo safe and sound—and settled upon doing it in the only way he knew: clumsily. He had gathered from the conversation he witnessed in Rabanastre that the marquis financed the Resistance, and what better way to draw them out of hiding than by slandering their backbone? The Resistance hated Basch, so Vaan thought it a fine idea. Balthier disagreed, and seeing as how he had promised to save Penelo only to get her into even hotter water, Vaan felt him more than deserving of Basch's reputation. Though, he did have to admit that he felt a few pangs of regret as the Resistance members escorted Balthier and him down the street, leaving Fran behind after her partner gave her a shrewd nod.

Therein lied another problem. Vaan still had trouble discerning the exact nature of Fran and Balthier's relationship. He had assumed upon first meeting them that they were involved romantically, but after watching them together for a few days, it no longer seemed so. At times, they didn't even seem friends—merely partners working for their own benefit. Still at others, they would appear to have an incredibly deep level of understanding—giving each other knowing glances and proceeding as if they'd discussed the situation at length, referencing inside jokes until the conversation seemed completely incoherent to Vaan, and jointly operating the _Strahl_ as fluently as a single person while speaking of entirely unrelated matters. It stirred in Vaan an odd feeling of paranoia—even moreso than the few lines of Vieran they had exchanged in the Dalmascan Estersands when returning from Nalbina.

At any rate, Vaan felt certain that leaving the Viera out this time would serve only to simplify things, as was soon be proven true when the Resistance soldiers forced them through a crowded tavern into the back room and up a flight of stairs. There sat a Resistance lieutenant, penning a letter while another soldier took his leave with some level of gratitude toward their previous exchange.

"Lieutenant," Vaan's escort stated respectfully.

He looked up and then stood, clearly curious. "What business do we have with them?"

"They've been discrediting the marquis."

"Discrediting?"

Balthier's escort stepped forward. "Seems these little rats are spreading word that the Kingslayer is on the loose."

"Oh, really?" the lieutenant asked.

"Well…" Vaan stuttered. "…It's…Well, it's kind of complicated."

"I'm sure." He gave his subordinates a nod and they brought Vaan and Balthier farther in, closing the door behind them. "Now," he went on, "just how exactly have they been going about this?"

"Announcing to the whole island that Ronsenburg is alive and well," one of the men explained.

"I see…" He folded his arms and looked the two over critically. "So the Empire has stooped even to public defamation to increase their power?"

"What!?" Vaan exclaimed. "We're not working with the Empire!"

Balthier rolled his eyes.

"Then you hold a personal grudge against the marquis?"

"No!" Vaan insisted. "I'm with the Resistance! I mean, I not _with_ you, but I—"

"Calm yourself, for God's sake!" the lieutenant groaned.

"I didn't know how else to find you."

"No sympathizer would dare create so vile a rumor."

"But it's true."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

The argument suddenly broke as the door reopened. "Today must be your lucky day, then."

All heads turned upon hearing the Landisian accent, finding to great astonishment that the Kingslayer himself stood in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" asked Vaan.

He cocked his head. "I heard I had been arrested again—had to see for myself."

"You've got your brother's sense of humor," Balthier groaned.

"Alright," Basch replied, "I followed you from the mines. Actually, I was about to put an end to your little display before these two beat me to it."

"Perhaps we acted too soon," one of the soldiers added.

"You have a lot of nerve showing yourself here," the lieutenant growled. "Why not take your freedom and run?"

"You really think so little of me?" Basch asked back. "I'm not going anywhere until I've cleared my name."

The lieutenant released a scoffing laugh. "You dare claim innocence?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I can prove it if you'll give me the chance."

Vaan tried to step forward, but the soldiers kept him in place. Balthier looked on silently, suddenly interested.

"I'll give you nothing," the lieutenant insisted. "To clear your name would be to ruin Ondore's."

"The marquis truly thought I had been executed," Basch explained. "He wasn't told of the lie until after he'd made the announcement."

"A dirty trick."

"Ask him yourself. He still doesn't know I'm alive."

He shook his head. "…The Empire stoops ever lower in its conquest."

"All the more reason to strengthen the Resistance while the opportunity is upon us."

"I take it you are here about the general?"

Basch nodded. "Why else?"

The lieutenant, however, did not mirror his resolve, instead folding his arms and leaning against the desk beside him. "Why not search Rabanastre?"

"The _Shiva_ docked in Rabanastre two days ago, and only stayed for an hour. Vayne wouldn't call it ahead of the fleet without good reason."

"Then you think Amalia is here?" the lieutenant asked, briefly raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Perhaps," said Basch. "If Vayne is so eager to move her, though, the chances are better that she _was_ here."

"Either way, we can offer you no help."

"So I was told in Rabanastre, but—"

"We operate separate from Dalmasca—allies, not friends." He strode toward the window and peered out beyond the drawn drapes before letting them fall once more. "Just because Azelas trusts you doesn't mean we do."

Basch withheld a groan, clearly tiring of such obstacles. "I hardly expect you to—and I'm not entirely sure Azelas does, either. I'm in this purely for Amalia."

"You'll have to forgive me for doubting the validity of your faithfulness…"

"Had it not been for my negligence, her husband would still be alive. I owe this to her."

At this the lieutenant sighed, still distrustful of the Landisian, but obviously unwilling to leave Amalia to her certain doom. "…I am very sorry, Basch," he said slowly, "but there is nothing we can do. Even should you prove truth in your words, we have heard nothing of Amalia since the fete. It is unlikely she still lives."

Basch shook his head slightly. "I cannot give up until I have proof…"

"The marquis may give it to you," the lieutenant conceded, "if you are willing to meet with him."

"I should like nothing more."

"Then I shall arrange it." He glanced at Vaan and Balthier, and attempted to withhold a smirk. "I'm sure you have a few words for your friends here. Stay as long as you wish."

Basch nodded, and the lieutenant left the room, the soldiers stepping out after him and closing the door securely behind them.

Balthier immediately spoke up: "Let me start by saying it's all his fault."

"Shut up," Vaan groaned.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Basch replied. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"It's a long story," said Vaan. "Basically, Prince Lamont's got my sister, and I don't know how to get her back."

"You've met Lamont?" Basch asked with a plainly skeptical tone.

"Yeah…" Vaan answered. "…You know him?"

"I know _of_ him."

"Gabranth is one of his security guards," Balthier clarified.

"Can't say I've ever met anyone else who knows," Basch went on.

"Yeah," said Vaan, "it doesn't make sense. There are only three princes—there would have been a huge celebration if there was another one…"

"Monty is Archadia's little secret," Balthier said with mild distaste. "Gramis slated him never to rule."

"Why?" Vaan asked.

"Because Vayne has a tendency to take out the competition."

The boy furrowed his brow. "…How do you—"

"Look, Vaan," Balthier cut in. "I like you. Really, I do. But if you so much as think about telling the Resistance about Lamont, I'm just gonna have to kill you."

"Uh…"

"Please don't think me any more suspicious," said Basch, "but it is probably best that he not be revealed to the Resistance—for his own safety."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Vaan defended. "I just…Well, he's got my little sister with him, and I don't know where he's taking her…"

"His Highness doesn't have the opportunity to make many friends with the way his father confines him," Basch explained. "I'm sure he has no ill intentions for her."

"But…he's…"

"Archadian?" Balthier asked.

Vaan shook his head. "Ah, you know what I mean…"

"If you really want to see her," Basch went on, "the marquis may be able to arrange something."

"You'll let me come with you?" Vaan asked.

He nodded. "Only if you promise to behave yourself."

"No problem!"

Balthier smirked and turned to Basch. "You do know this is suicide, right?"

"Well, he seems to be bringing you good luck," Basch replied.

"Hey!" exclaimed Vaan.

"Then are you coming back to Rabanastre with me or not?" asked Balthier.

"Don't I have to?" Vaan replied. "Law of Exchange or something?"

"You're the one who got us into this," said Balthier.

"But you got Penelo into it," said Vaan.

"And I got Penelo out of it. And that was a fine thanks she gave me, by the way."

Vaan rolled his eyes with a groan.

"I'll see that you and your sister get back home," Basch offered. "Just be warned that Lamont may not let her go."

At this, Vaan's eyes momentarily widened. "…He can do that?"

"He's the emperor's son; he can do anything."

"And then some," Balthier added.

"At any rate," said Basch, "it's all dependent on whether or not the marquis can be of any use. Don't get your hopes up."

"Right," Vaan replied.

"This marquis…" said Balthier. "…He's old what's-her-name's uncle, right?"

"Princess Ashelia's mother's brother," Basch answered with a nod. "Legally, next in line to Dalmasca's throne."

"I see." The pirate folded his arms in thought. "And the Resistance is this eager to work with him even though he's friendly with the Empire?"

Basch cocked his head. "What are you getting at?"

"I don't know, but there's bound to be money in it somewhere."

"Isn't your business here done?" Vaan stated pressingly.

"For now, at least," Balthier replied, heading for the door. "Good luck, gents."

They had just under an hour to wait, as the marquis proved most eager to meet with the supposedly dead Kingslayer, but Vaan had made good use of the time, pestering Basch with all manner of questions pertaining to the Resistance and the army and the since-lost Order of Dalmascan Knights. Basch humored him, though, for he hadn't allowed Vaan to tag along solely for Penelo's sake—indeed, he felt confident that she was quite safe. It had been Vaan's penchant for danger that roused his protectiveness. For whatever reason, Vaan had a knack for reminding him of the admittedly feisty Prince Rasler, and Basch simply could not bear to see the boy meet a like fate.

By this token, he also saw a bit of himself in the boy, and hoped to spare him some of the less fortunate "adventures" of his own youth. Basch had always had to learn from experience—sometimes several experiences. It was unfortunately one of the many things he and the late Prince Rasler had in common, and it had landed them both in plenty of regrettable situations. But being that he had failed Vaan's brother in the past, this seemed a decent way to make amends. In truth, the only reason he remembered Reks so clearly was because of his age—he had been barely older than Vaan when he died. He had told Basch once that he had younger siblings to feed, so he had allowed him the same responsibilities as the older soldiers, but this had taught him a grave lesson, and he wasn't about to let Vaan fall into the same trap.

When at last they were taken to the marquis's estate, Vaan ceased his questions about his own brother and hesitantly brought up Basch's, though after the previous conversation, Basch almost regarded the change of subject with relief.

"…So…what'll you do if you ever catch up with your brother?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

Vaan looked at him with clearly evident shock. "Haven't you ever thought about it?"

"Not so much."

"But…if Lamont's here, doesn't that mean Gabranth's here, too?"

"I don't know," Basch said tiredly. "Sure would make things easier."

"No kidding."

"This might not be his shift, though; Judge Drace watches over him too."

"Two Judges for one little kid?"

"Apparently he's not prone to staying in one place for too long. I'm amazed the emperor even let him leave Archades, to be honest. It doesn't seem right that he'd send only one to keep tabs on him while he's out of town."

"Weren't the others looking out for Vayne?"

Basch shook his head. "The others hate Vayne. Maybe Gramis was counting on that."

Before they could discuss the matter any further, Marquis Ondore arrived, accompanied by two guards who he asked to wait outside. Vaan had no idea how to greet such a man, but Basch seemed to maintain his usual attitude, so he decided not to worry about it, though in the back of his mind, he could not allay his feelings of reverence for the man who by all rights should have been named the steward of Dalmasca two years ago.

The prince and princess had left no heir. The rumors had spread far and wide—first that he was impotent, and then that she was barren, but no excuse could solve the problem. With Rasler's death, the princess became stewardess of Nabradia by her marriage, though her position proved shaky at best. Upon her death, the inheritance passed to Halim by his sister's marriage, though he had enough to worry about with his own country and was only minimally accepted by the people of Dalmasca—and generally ignored by the people of Nabradia. Even if he took the throne, it would do nothing more than enrage the Empire, and he knew full well that the armies would not have united under him. All he could do to prevent further bloodshed was step aside and let Archadia claim its prize.

However, his compliance had spared Bhujerba a hostile takeover (so far), and though he had no choice but to do the Empire's bidding, he still retained some power—enough, at least, to calm his people and prevent riots and rebellions.

He regarded the pair with flat seriousness, placing his hands behind his back and stepping toward them, though still maintaining a fair distance that belied his distrust. "Captain Ronsenburg," he said sullenly. "Forgive me for not welcoming your return with higher spirits."

"I've grown quite used to it," Basch replied.

The marquis turned to Vaan curiously. "And Miss Penelo's brother, I take it?"

"Yeah," he answered with a nod. "Is she alright?"

"Perfectly. She and the prince have been hunting down every bit of fun to be had on this island. Though if you associate with the likes of him, I'm not sure you'll be permitted to see her."

Vaan turned his eyes to the floor and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well…desperate times and all that."

"He means no harm to Master Lamont," Basch added. "We're here on a different matter."

"It had better be a good one," Ondore retorted with an eloquent growl. "You are the sword Vayne's strung above my head. Once he realizes you're free, we'll all be powerless to stop him."

"He'll leave nothing to chance," Basch agreed. "I've heard as much. But please believe I haven't come here as a threat to you."

"Not intentionally perhaps. It was not so very long ago that I announced you had been executed."

"And had you not, it likely would have happened. I came to help the Resistance."

Now the marquis folded his arms and looked upon Basch with almost sarcastic interest. "In what way?"

Basch briefly set his jaw before speaking. "A leader of the Resistance has fallen into Imperial hands—a woman by the name of Amalia. I would rescue her, but I need your help."

"…You understand I've my position to consider," the marquis said slowly.

"Please," Basch insisted. "We are lost without her."

Ondore sighed, relaxing his posture only slightly. "I realize your struggle, but I'm afraid I can be of little service to you. I have heard nothing from the Imperials of a rebel leader being captured. If she was not sent to Nalbina with her followers, she has likely been put to death."

"They would not kill her—she's far too valuable."

"Clearly, if even you have revealed yourself to protect her."

"Even me?"

"Captain Vossler came to me not more than a few hours ago, with both your concern and your resolve."

Basch had to resist releasing a childish huff. "Checking up on me."

"Can you blame him?" Ondore replied. "He was most hesitant to explain the details of the lady's position, though—which of course struck me as odd, given that I had never beforehand heard of her."

"I'm afraid this issue demands a certain level of secrecy."

"Ah, yes." Ondore began a slow, thoughtful pacing. "Secrecy where my great generosity is concerned, but not where convicted traitors are."

"I don't suppose there's anything I might say to earn your trust…" Basch said with fleeting eye-contact.

"Indeed, there is not," he answered. "But as I said, I understand your desperation, and therefore I will instruct you just as I did Captain Vossler: If your leader is still alive, she will be brought to the emperor himself, and the only one other than Vayne whom His Highness would trust with such a task is his favored Judge, Lord Ghis, who just happens to be here in Bhujerba this very moment."

"I'm afraid I must be slow to trust such irony…"

"As was Vossler, but the facts remain: neither Vayne nor Ghis has crossed Archadian borders since the attack; Amalia is here or still in Dalmasca."

"Then Ghis will answer to me before he answers to Gramis."

"So quick to action?" the marquis scoffed, ceasing his pacing. "Have you forgotten that Ghis is the one who led the conquest of Landis? He commands the entire Eighth Fleet now."

"If I didn't know any better," said Basch, "I would think you are trying to discourage me."

"Not in the least. True, he normally serves aboard the _Leviathan_, but with the other four elite Judges assigned to Lord Vayne's security detail, the emperor has temporarily entrusted Ghis with the protection of his younger son."

Basch cocked his head. "Gabranth can't be too happy about that…"

"Neither is Ghis. Now is the best time to challenge him—while he is distracted, and too cautious to risk injury to the prince. At any rate, you stand a better chance with him than you do with the emperor."

"But the fleet is gathering—they'll be gone by the time I can assemble the Resistance."

The marquis smiled faintly, but maintained his somewhat arrogant air. "They do not make straight for Archadia just yet. Master Lamont's cortege has rejoined the Imperial detachment, and I am told they will depart for Rabanastre this eventide. There, he will be placed back in the care of his usual supervisors."

"So either I face Ghis now on my own while the prince is aboard," Basch concluded, "or later fully prepared when he's willing to strike? A double-edged sword."

"Indeed," Ondore answered with a grim nod.

Unable to take the suspense, Vaan stepped forward shyly. "Hey, um…I'll go with you."

"…What?" Basch asked.

"If you go now," Vaan explained. "You won't be on your own."

Basch shook his head. "This will be dangerous, Vaan—"

"I know, but—well, I'm pretty much bound to end up in the Resistance anyway, and I still have to find Penelo, so…just let me come with you!"

And now the captain smiled mischievously. "You're not going to give me a choice, are you?"

"Nope!" Vaan exclaimed with pride.

"Very well, then." He turned to Ondore with a mild look of expectation. "I don't suppose you could get us aboard the _Leviathan_ in a timely manner?"

"Only under one condition," he replied.

"Name it."

"You must swear to me that no harm will come to Prince Lamont from your interference—his father would have both Dalmasca and Bhujerba crushed in retribution."

"I would not dare count a child among enemies," Basch assured him. "You have my word."

"Then you have my aide," he conceded, "but surely the exigencies of position are not lost on you. Why indeed, you should find the enemy's chains an easy burden to bear. If you are quite ready, I could have it done right now."

Basch momentarily looked to Vaan, who shrugged with a smile, then nodded his thanks to the marquis. "No better time than the present, as they say."

Ondore responded with an obliging smirk, then opened the door and spoke to the guards outside: "Summon the guard." They did so, and he once more turned to Basch and Vaan as footsteps sounded in the hallway. "Well," he said with thinly veiled exhaustion, "you're going to at least make it look good, aren't you?"

"Of course," Basch replied with a nod as he and Vaan drew their swords.

A group of soldiers promptly arrived, finding just the scene expected before them, and quickly overcame the marquis's "attackers." Ondore instructed that they be taken to Judge Ghis, and for the second time that day, Vaan was hauled off to meet with someone who could very well kill him. However, he had oddly grown quite used to it since his misadventure at the fete, and his fear lessened in the shadow of his curiosity. Basch seemed to recognize the excitement it stirred in him—being away from home and digging up trouble at every turn—but had clearly seen his fill of it over the years and harbored little if any anxiety for the future.

Once cuffed, they were led off the estate and taken to the aerodome a short distance away at the eastern end of the island, where the Eighth Fleet remained docked. Many of the lesser ships had already taken to the sky, but the flagship—the _Leviathan_—idled in the hangar, its massive magicite engines humming and its high steel frame gleaming. The thrum of the engines reverberated in Vaan's chest, rendering his ears temporarily useless and briefly causing him to squint his eyes as the air whirred by him as the guards shoved him up the boarding ramp. Even Basch grew ill at ease for a moment, having served his time in the military on the ground, but he gave no sign of regret and indeed eagerly looked forward to at last regaining his reputation within the Resistance.

As they were led through the winding metallic halls of the _Leviathan_, the ship lurched and started forward, its movements eliciting groans from its depths that echoed throughout its well-worn chambers and panels. Their final destination was the command bridge, a large, cage-like room floored with metal meshing and surrounded on one half with broad windows and on the other with scuffed steel. At the controls worked several Archadian soldiers, and there stood in the center of the room Judge Ghis, a morbidly dark and imposing figure in his polished armor, but of greatest note were his guests—Fran and Balthier, who stood casually before him in conversation as the prisoners entered amid their guards.

"…Balthier?" Vaan asked, eyes widening childishly as both pirates regarded him with only mild concern.

Ghis nodded to a soldier at his left. "Fetch Amalia."

The soldier promptly obeyed, and Balthier gave Vaan a slight smirk. "Well, now," he said. "You're a bit early, aren't you?"

Vaan could find no words with which to respond, but Ghis caustically addressed Balthier before he had the chance: "I will not stand for your musings, coward. Did I not warn you of what would occur should you return empty-handed?"

"Your Honor," Balthier replied extravagantly, "such a lack of faith is insulting to my reputation." He took the Dusk Shard from his pocket and held it aloft cockily. "I'm more than prepared to hold up my end of the bargain if you hold up yours."

"You son of a bitch!" Vaan shouted.

"Oh, boy…" Balthier groaned.

Vaan fought his restraints, but the guards on either side of him held him firm. "You had it all along!"

"No," the pirate explained dryly, "Penelo had it all along. Why else do you think I'd share the spotlight with you for five whole days?"

"Enough!" Ghis interrupted. "How you retrieved it is of no concern here. Just hand it over."

Balthier drew the stone back with a smirk and feigned offense. "Now, now, Ghis—you gave me your word."

"And I shall keep it," the Judge insisted. "Give me the stone and I'll see that you disappear."

"And Francesca?"

"Likewise."

"And the bounties?"

"Gone. Your ship will fly under Archadian colors—no questions asked."

Balthier folded his arms skeptically. "All well and good, but how do I know you won't kill me the moment you have it?"

After considering this for a moment with obvious insolence, Ghis turned to one of the higher-ranking officers on deck. "Captain! Prepare an Atomos for our friends."

The captain saluted silently and headed toward the nearest door, but Balthier sneered at the Judge's choice of words, tossing him the stone harshly as he and Fran strode after the soldier. "Oh, have a little dignity. Here's your precious rock. God help you if our paths ever cross again."

Vaan jumped forward desperately, but was no match for his human restraints. "Balthier!"

"It was fun while it lasted, kid."

The door closed.

"Now," Ghis continued, coldly examining Basch and Vaan, "who are these poor wretches, and what have they done to earn my company?"

"They are insurgents, Your Honor," one of the guards reported. "Caught red-handed in an assassination attempt against the marquis."

Though his face remained hidden behind the judicial helmet, Ghis seemed genuinely surprised by this, no doubt having suspected Ondore of aiding the Resistance. "Truly?" he asked.

"He has sold our independence for his own gain," Basch replied.

Quickly catching on, Vaan added, "He'll burn for cooperating with scum like you!"

"Hmmm…" Ghis placed his hands behind his back in the usual overly-dignified Archadian manner. "A strike against the marquis, or a plot to recover your general?"

"We do not answer to the insurgence," said Basch. "Our freedom is our own."

The Judge released a short, mocking laugh, but had no time for a response, for the guard he had sent earlier returned at that moment.

"The prisoner, My Lord."

The soldier's call drew the attention of all present to Amalia, who he escorted in not as a prisoner, but rather as a guest. She stood obediently at his side, free of chains or irons, dressed in a pearly white Archadian-style gown and matching high-heeled shoes—quite a drastic change from the sand-dusted pants and workshirt Vaan had first seen her in that night at the palace. However, her biting attitude hadn't been altered in the least, as became evident upon her first sight of Basch.

"…You!" Skillfully negotiating the flowing skirt of her dress, she stomped up to the Landisian much in the fashion of a tigress advancing on one who has threatened her cubs.

Ghis lurched forward, ordering his men to restrain her, and Basch tried to draw back, but was securely controlled by the soldiers on either side of him. "Amalia—"

SLAP.

By instinct, Vaan squeezed his eyes shut, but her onslaught was momentarily halted by the soldier who had brought her in. Yet, as he opened his eyes, he bore witness to the painful—if not somewhat amusing—sight of Amalia landing her knee square in the soldier's groin, and quickly closed them again.

"After what you've done!" she shouted as a soldier left Vaan's side to calm her. "How dare you!?" She elbowed the poor man in the gut and turned her venomous glare to Vaan. "And you! Haven't you shamed our country enough?"

A third soldier came to the rescue, abandoning his post beside Basch in light of the situation, and Ghis, too, took hold of her free arm while the other two men recovered.

"Come now," the Judge mused. "You forget your manners…"

"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded, shaking him off harshly. "I have no business with a thief or a murderer!"

"Perhaps not, but you do have business with this." He proudly held the Dusk Shard aloft, instantly wiping the anger from her face and replacing it with pure astonishment.

"…How did you…"

"Thieves can occasionally come in handy."

Amalia shook her head slightly, aware now that she had effectively blown their fragile cover, but more concerned with the national treasure before her for the time being. "Release them!" she ordered. "Or at the very least lock them up away from here—they have no part in this!"

"Why so protective?" Ghis asked. "They are citizens of Dalmasca. Is this not their national treasure?"

"The Dusk Shard?" Basch scoffed. "How in the name of God did Balthier get hold of that?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Ghis explained. "You can always trust a coward to look out for himself."

"This is appalling," Amalia sneered. "To treat so valuable a thing with so little respect!"

"Valuable, indeed," said Ghis, producing a knife from his belt. "According to legend, this stone's power was infused by the very creators of Ivalice. It warrants the quality of blood—it will recognize its rightful owner."

The soldier that held her in place forced her arm out and opened her palm for the Judge, who quickly drew the blade across it.

"Don't—" Amalia whimpered.

But her words went unheeded, as Ghis placed the Dusk Shard in her bleeding hand. She closed her eyes, and for moment it almost seemed as though Ghis's could be seen glinting with pride through his steel helmet as the stone began to glow a vivid crimson, emitting with its sheen a soft moan like the humming of a distant choir.

Basch hung his head with a sigh of defeat. "Damn…"

"Well, well, well…" Ghis gloated. "Lord Vayne will be very eager to speak with you, Princess."

"I've already said all I have to say to him," she replied softly, turning her head from her hand as he removed the stone.

Vaan looked to Basch. "…You knew?"

He shook his head dismally. "Azelas will never trust me now…"

Not one to let the emotions of others toy with his own, Ghis squeezed the princess's hand over a cup given to him by yet another soldier, gathering a few drops of blood while the wound remained fresh. "Lend us a bit more," he mused. "I'd rather not have you running your mouth when we prove your survival to Emperor Gramis."

She shot him a scowl and yanked her arm free. "I would first and foremost inform him that his prized son wanders about a warship unprotected."

This got Ghis's attention, and he leveled his own scowl on her with piercing ferocity, though his voice remained threateningly calm. "…And how is that you should come to know of such things?" he demanded.

"I've spent the last half hour talking with him and his lady friend," she answered with cat-like matter-of-factness. "Charming kids. I'd hate to see anything ill befall them due to your inattentiveness."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a likelihood."

Though the Judge clearly wished to grant no form of victory to the princess, he could not deny the truth of her words, and thus leaned back as though to consider his options before speaking once more: "The lady has a point. Guards!" Several jumped at his command. "Take them away. Lady Ashelia is to be quartered separately."

A pair of guards stepped toward Ashelia, but she glowered at them when they attempted to restrain her, instead walking obediently between them as they led her out of the room. A quartet of guards handled Basch and Vaan, one leading and one taking up the rear while the other two stood at the prisoners' sides, keeping them entirely surrounded.

Ghis turned to yet another pair of soldiers with far greater severity than was their due. "And you two go attend to Master Lamont."

As all of the soldiers obeyed, the atmosphere clamed somewhat and happenings about the vessel seemed to return to normal. Vaan and Basch were led down several corridors to the rear of the ship, and the boy quickly regretted his course of actions, for he now feared that he stood no chance of finding Penelo. Basch's mood, however, seemed to have lifted considerably in spite the irons binding his wrists once again and the bright red mark on his cheek that the princess's slap had left in its wake. Vaan remained wary, but took this as a good sign.

Presently, a lone soldier passed by them, inspecting each room on his way. "Lamont?...Lamont, this isn't funny!"

"Oh, good," Basch said with a slight smile, "they've lost him already."

"Good?" Vaan replied. "He's got my sister with him!"

"A distraction, remember?" Basch told him with no attempt to hide their conversation from their escorts. "From what Noah's told me, that boy could elude an entire army."

The soldier behind them cut in harshly: "Shut up, dregs!"

To this, the two prisoners glanced at each other, and then spoke in unison: "Make us."

"As you wi—"

No sooner did the guard lunge to strike did Basch and Vaan trip him, each turning to disarm and floor their escorts. Basch overcame his opponent with expert speed and quickly assisted Vaan in decking his own, but both were taken aback as the soldier that led them knocked the first unconscious before he could rise to join the battle.

"Faster than I expected," he said, his voice jogging Vaan's memory with minimally cloudy effectiveness.

"Azelas…" Basch groaned.

The captain removed his Archadian helmet and produced a set of keys from his belt. "The marquis has been busy."

"Not lightly did I beg his aid," Basch replied, holding out his bound wrists.

"Is this really the best you could come up with?"

"It was short notice, alright?"

Azelas turned to Vaan and unlocked his irons as well. "You again?"

"It's a long story," the boy sighed.

"Listen," he explained, clearly uncomfortable with offering up an apology. "Ashe's safety has been reliant on my paranoia for the past two years. I could trust nobody…"

"Don't worry," Basch assured him with a nod. "You did your duty—and mine for me."

Azelas smirked. "Though I must admit it was quite satisfying to see her bitchslap you like that."

"Don't push it."

"Right," he said, relieving one of the unconscious soldiers of his sword—undoubtedly to properly arm Ashelia. "I'm getting her out. I need your help."

"Of course."

"This way."

Vaan followed them down the hall without fully comprehending the conversation, but Reks had told him of the understanding developed between soldiers and decided against hesitating. The princess had mentioned speaking with Monty's "lady friend," so for the moment, finding Ashelia meant finding Penelo, and even finding Ashelia alone proved a worthy goal in his eyes, for her survival surely meant freedom for Dalmasca—at least he fancied it might.

"She's not going to kill me, is she?" Basch asked as they began searching the many holding rooms.

"Difficult to say," Azelas answered. "She was angry as hell when they announced you were to be executed."

"Wanted to do it herself?" Basch mused.

So far every room had been empty, which did little to calm Vaan's nerves.

"Exactly," said Azelas. "But once it had supposedly been done… Well, don't tell her you know this, but she cried for hours."

"So you think I stand a chance?"

"Maybe. Just don't turn your back on her."

Basch laughed.

They soon arrived with great relief in the proper room, where Penelo and Monty busied themselves bandaging Ashelia's injured hand through the bars of her cell, clearly oblivious to her true identity. Seeing that none had heard them enter, the three intruders approached with all due caution, Azelas interrupting Monty and Penelo's confused discussion on the practice of amateur medicine.

"Your Majesty…" Ashelia and Monty both turned to Azelas expectantly. "Ah," he went on. "Both Your Majesties."

Monty and Penelo looked to the princess.

"What?" Penelo asked.

"Penelo," said Vaan, "that's the princess."

"But…" Penelo stuttered. "…You were…"

"What's he doing here?" Ashelia interrupted upon noticing Basch.

"Highness, please," he begged, "we will talk later."

"Later!?" she growled. "I will not place my trust in the sword of a defector!"

"Yet trust his sword we must," said Azelas. "I see no other way."

"Princess?" Monty asked, as Basch carefully closed the door to the hall. "Of Dalmasca?"

"Yes," Ashelia answered. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"Don't worry," he said with a smile. "I don't tell people, either. Halim will be so happy to see you!"

"Oh…uh…"

"That may have to wait," Azelas stepped in at her speechlessness. "For now it is better that the marquis not know. It would create a conflict of interest, given his position and hers."

"Given his position and hers," Monty replied, "I doubt much would change."

Now Vaan stepped in: "…You know?"

Monty smirked. "I'm not with the insurgence, if that's what you mean."

"_Resistance_," said Ashelia.

"Well, then," Azelas continued, "given your position and ours, perhaps it is best that _you_ not know."

"I already do," said Monty. "Now are you going to bust her out or are you just going to wait around for Ghis to show up?"

"Hm." Azelas folded his arms almost proudly. "You're a Solidor alright."

"Where are the keys?" asked Vaan.

"The guard took them," Monty answered, taking a pin from Penelo's hair and quickly setting to work on the lock with it. "I can do it."

The princess gazed at him uncertainly, her gratitude overshadowed by her suspicion. "You would really let me leave, knowing who I am?"

"By all rights you ought not even to exist," said Monty. "Technically I'm not letting anyone leave."

"Well put."

"Geez…" said Vaan, looking on in wonder. "Hey, Basch, you could learn a thing or two from this guy."

"God knows I need it," said Basch.

"You're Gabranth's brother, aren't you?" Monty asked.

"Yes," Basch answered.

"I thought you were twins."

"We are."

"Then why do you look older?"

He considered this for moment, then replied, plainly: "Prison."

"Oh," said Monty. "He said you were dead."

"He says lots of things."

Ashelia narrowed her eyes threateningly at Basch. "…Twins?"

A screeching alarm abruptly echoed throughout the steel halls of the ship, accompanied by the flashing of red emergency lights in each and every room, interrupting them and fostering a sudden need for a quick escape. Monty, however, kept adorably calm, perhaps a bit too used to being caught in the act, and turned his eyes upward with curious exhaustion.

"Uh oh…" he groaned. "Ghis must be on to us."

Azelas held his head wearily as though he'd been hit by a sudden migraine. "Just what we need."

"I think I've got it…There!" A small metallic _click_ sounded their victory, and Monty pulled the barred gate open.

"Nice work!" exclaimed Penelo.

"Thank you, Lamont," Ashelia added.

He smiled brightly, handing the hairpin back to the now blushing Penelo. "No problem!"

"Alright, then," said Azelas, taking the princess's hand and leading her out of the cell. "We track back—commandeer a ship and make our escape."

Ashelia nodded. "Right."

As they headed for the door, Penelo turned to Lamont. "Monty, you should go back. I don't want you to get in trouble because of us."

"You're going with them?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't belong here."

"…I understand. But…w—would you…" He glanced downward and let out a breath, clearly lost for words, then took the manufactured nethicite from his pocket and held it out to her. "Here. I want you to keep it."

She took it hesitantly, searching his eyes for some ulterior motive, some sign that he was an Archadian—a Solidor. "…Doesn't Doctor Cid need this?"

"He'll get by. It's brought me good luck up till now; maybe it will do the same for you."

At last finding no reason to fear or hate him, she clutched the stone affectionately to her heart and placed her other hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, Monty. You're my hero." With this, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, which he answered with a grimace and a childish "Ew!"

"Come on!" Vaan urged, tugging on her arm.

She went along with him, but managed to call over her shoulder before disappearing into the many winding tunnels of the _Leviathan_. "Goodbye!"

Monty just stood motionless, dumbfounded and smiling, staring after her even as she left his sight.

The _Leviathan's_ docking bay held several smaller crafts, and more than one open entryway exposed the fresh night sky, lit but minimally by the recently fallen sun. The floating isles of Bhujerba remained visible on the horizon—within the distance of an Atomos, the small ferry ships used to transport soldiers and personnel between the larger vessels. However, each of the ships remained locked, and even if they'd still had access to Monty's skills, they found themselves with no opportunity to use them, for Judge Ghis met them in the middle of the hangar, a sizable group of soldiers surrounding him.

"Your Majesty does not disappoint," he said, sounding deliberately bored. "Ever quick to spurn an honorable surrender, as was your father."

"You know nothing of my father!" Ashelia growled in reply.

"Such a great shame," he continued with a small laugh. "I must confess: I thought you the one who would help us restore peace to Dalmasca."

The guards spread out silently, moving behind the group of escapees and shutting the doors they entered through, leaving only open air on either side and Ghis at the front.

"No matter," the Judge continued, taking a glowing piece of magicite from his pocket. "We hold the proof of your royal lineage; a maid of passing resemblance will serve our purposes now."

He triggered the stone's energy, releasing it upon the group in what should by all means have been a killing blow, but the streaming bolts of power that lit the room did no damage, instead fizzling out in the air and descending upon Penelo's hand.

"…What was that?" Vaan asked at length.

"The nethicite," she whispered breathlessly, examining the stone she held as it absorbed the last of the deadly light.

"Damn it, Monty…" Ghis groaned, drawing his sword.

Ashelia and her bodyguards met the gesture, but before the opposing forces could come to blows, a shout sounded from the right of the hangar:

"Vaan!"

He turned frantically in search of the voice. "Fran?"

"Down here!" she replied as an Atomos hovered near the docked ships beside them. "Hurry up!"

The others made a dash for the ship without question as the soldiers descended upon them, but Vaan remained wary.

"We can't trust them!" he exclaimed.

"Like you couldn't trust me?" asked Basch.

"You can't choose your rescuers," Ashelia added as she leapt from the edge of the dock and into the open hatch of the tiny ship below.

Vaan groaned, but nevertheless waved his sister on, and she clutched her nethicite extra tight and jumped, the hem of her Archadian dress fluttering behind her. The men went last, just in time to avert battle with a full squad of Archadian soldiers, and the small craft took off, agilely negotiating the other ships within range and using its preassigned clearance to make an all-too easy escape.

Fran met them at the top hatch, closing it once they had all entered, but offered no explanation as she led them to the cockpit.

"What the hell was that?" Vaan demanded.

"You're welcome," she replied.

"Where is he?" he pressed. "I'll kick his ass."

"This is not a good time to start with him," she explained. "He is displeased that they have given us an Atomos. 'All skiff, no ship,' he says—hardly fit for a leading man."

"Who?" asked the princess.

Before her question could be addressed, they entered the cramped cockpit, finding Balthier at the controls.

"Balthier, you lying bastard!" Vaan shouted.

"It's good to see you, too," the pirate replied.

"You almost got the princess killed!" Basch growled.

"If it weren't for you," Azelas added, "they wouldn't even know she's a royal!"

"So you are the late princess, then?" asked Balthier. "Fancy that."

"The gods jest," said Fran, taking a seat beside him.

He laughed. "Tell them to leave me out this time."

"You're the one responsible for the Empire's possession of the Dusk Shard?" Ashelia asked.

"More or less," Balthier answered.

"What!?" Penelo stepped in, reaching for her pocket. "But I've got the Dusk Shard right…" Pulling her hand out from the folds of her skirt, she found herself to be in possession of a simple gray rock, commonly found in the Lhusu Mines and similar to the Dusk Shard only in size and weight. "…here," she finished jadedly.

"Sorry, love," said Balthier. "Had to be done."

Vaan held his head and grit his teeth. Despite the recent events, even he had to admit that Balthier stood at the top of his game as a pirate. But on the bright side, he had indeed obeyed the Law of Exchange. "This had better be your way of apologizing…" Vaan muttered.

"Are you mad?" Balthier asked with a smirk. "If I were to apologize for anything, I'd first have to regret it."

"Regardless of your actions in the past," Ashelia sighed. "I suppose we owe you our gratitude…"

Balthier's smile widened. "I'm a businessman, darling, not a philanthropist; we've already contacted the marquis and he'll be happy to buy you back."

"…What!?" she snarled.

Vaan folded his arms. "So you're a bounty hunter now?"

"If you can't beat them, join them!" Balthier beamed.

"This has been our most profitable day to date," added Fran.

"So, wait a minute…" said Penelo. "Did he screw us over or not?"

Vaan rolled his eyes.


	9. Chapter 8

_VIII._

Over the course of his life, Vayne had been placed in the care of three Judges. Ferrinas held the longest post, serving as his guardian and surrogate father for his first fifteen years, but then Gramis insisted that Vayne join the Archadian armed services—as was the Solidor tradition—and Ferrinas was killed in his defense. This was neither the first nor the last of many tragedies that Vayne held his father accountable for, but the hatred that followed his mourning was thankfully cut short by the appointment of Judge Zecht as a replacement. While Ferrinas had been a family man, Zecht was most definitely a military man, and allowed no weakness on his own part or Vayne's. They became fast friends and made all manner of mischief, which grew exponentially with Monty's arrival, but after seven years of servitude, it became clear that Zecht longed for the battlefield—as dearly as he loved the Solidor princes, politics bored him half to death. For this reason, Vayne arranged a transfer, placing Zecht at the head of a ground fleet where he belonged and placing his current guardian, Judge Bergan, at his side as both bodyguard and political advisor where he belonged.

Monty had two Judges assigned to him: Drace and Gabranth. This, however, was not due solely to Gramis' favoritism, but was instead heavily reliant on Monty's rather remarkable ability to get himself into unheard of amounts of trouble. Gabranth was the lower ranking, sent to work under Drace's command when the prince began to crawl—or as one might rather put it: when he began to disappear. It was intended to be something of an insult; the young, foreign newcomer put on babysitting duty—a joke widely enjoyed among the other Judges—but he took great pride in his position, for the lack of prestige was clearly unimportant to him when overshadowed by the happiness Monty generated. Drace in particular had been merciless toward the Landisian until witnessing firsthand his aptitude for fatherhood. Monty loved him, and that was enough to keep him around.

Drace was the second oldest of the Judges who personally guarded the Solidors—younger only than Ghis—and had in her time watched over both empresses. Gramis trusted her unwaveringly, even to the point of assigning her to Monty's security within an hour of his birth, without even consulting Vayne. Vayne himself did not know her very well, and did not think she particularly liked him—or liked anyone—but he had seen her fight and had nothing but respect for that tenacity. She was a high-born Archadian, a Judge before he ever existed, and he had been told to trust her—by Gramis, by Ferrinas, by Zecht, by Monty even—but for the last two years this had been difficult. She permitted Gabranth to remain in Monty's cortege. Only she and Gramis had the power to do this, and after he abandoned his country for its conqueror, even after he betrayed his own brother, she trusted him with Monty's care. Vayne found this unsettling, to say the least.

Worse was the ambush at the fete. Vayne knew the way the Senate thought, and if anyone had the guts to agree to such a plot, it would be Drace. But there was no proof, of course, and there probably never would be, but he still comforted himself with the diligence of his paranoia. It had kept him alive this long, at least.

Yet he feared that Drace may not be his only worry as of late, for the Senate had insisted he allow the people of Rabanastre to welcome him with the extravagant party, knowing full well the peril it would put him in. He had long suspected that the Senators had plans for his brother, but he would never have guessed that they would act while he remained so young. Indeed, he had always thought they would allow the boy to grow a bit first—to poison him against his father and brother—before staging the coup that would make him their precious political toy. But this played in Vayne's favor, for he had seen his father's will, and knew for a fact that it excluded Monty. When the old man finally passed, the child and the country would be in Vayne's care, and the Senate would hold no sway over either—leaving Drace and Gabranth his only obstacles.

At the moment, however, he could do little to affect his country's future, for he remained stuck in Rabanastre, fighting day and night to earn some respect. The Eighth Fleet was due to arrive any moment, which he hoped would lighten the situation, but for now he remained pacing in the king's office, biting his tongue while Drace reported the day's happenings in her usual patronizing tone. Though the repairs to the palace (and his reputation) had thus far gone well, he found himself unable to contain his feelings for the Senate and their petty games, but figured he may as well give Drace some warning that he was on to her.

"Those decrepit, basking fools in Archades tie my hands, and look what happens! I tell you, this country's obstinacy knows no bounds."

"The Senators could not have known this would happen," she assured him.

"Do you really think them that ignorant?" he replied. "I've no doubt they are stewing in disappointment at my survival this very moment."

"Then perhaps it would be wiser to disarm them before confronting them."

He rolled his eyes. "What do you think Father's been trying to do the last two years?"

"Highness," Drace explained dryly, clearly enjoying his dismay, "the insurgents in Rabanastre operate alone at present, but should they garner external support, the situation could worsen. Once you get them out of your way, you will be safer to go about assisting your father in fulfilling his ambitions."

"More easily said than done."

She shifted slightly, placing her hands elegantly behind her back. "We have found the counter-Imperial elements in Bhujerba to be conspicuously well-funded. No doubt Marquis Ondore is behind it—why not start with him?"

"The marquis has written us a letter," Vayne replied. "He claims that he's recaptured our runaway. He's given him to Ghis." He pulled the letter in question from within his vest and tossed on the desk.

"Ghis would do well to give him to Gabranth," Drace said stiffly.

"Speaking of fraternity," the prince continued, "shouldn't there be something short, sweet, and exceptionally pettable bouncing around here by now?"

"The _Leviathan_ is still in docking," said Drace. "Last I heard, Master Lamont was getting a good tongue-lashing from Ghis."

"Oh, God, what did he do now?"

"Nothing His Honor wasn't asking for, I'm sure."

"Listen," Vayne said concernedly. "I don't want Monty involved in all of this nonsense—if he asks, the _Leviathan_ stopped in Bhujerba to refuel."

She nodded. "And Gabranth?"

"Simply running errands in the city, nothing more."

"I understand."

He gave his order not a moment too soon, for in that instant a pair of soldiers entered the office, escorting Monty and the ever-scheming Doctor Cid.

"Vayne!"

"Monty!"

The boy practically leapt at Vayne, and he dropped to one knee to pull him in and rough him up, effectively breaking the density of the atmosphere. They began scruffing each other's hair with borderline violence, laughing so heartily that the soldiers each did a double take before exiting. Doctor Cid got a kick out of the display, always pleased with the less dignified habits of royalty, and even Drace seemed to release the dourness of her being in some small amount.

"Speak of the Devil…" she mused, placing a hand on her steel-plated hip.

"Hey, Drace," Monty replied with a bright smile.

"Look at you!" Vayne exclaimed, grabbing Monty's shoulders and holding him back to take a good look. "How'd you get so tall?"

"Practice," Monty replied matter-of-factly.

Vayne laughed. "I swear, you get bigger every time I see you…"

"Smarter, too," Cid stated with fatherly pride. "The lad is fast on his way to putting me out of business."

"Oh, I believe it," replied Vayne.

"We finally made workable nethicite!" Monty reported giddily. "We won't have to mine it anymore!"

"Well, that's for the future to see," Cid added. "Still plenty of kinks to work out, you know."

"And I'm sure you two will have fun doing so," said Vayne, rising and smoothing his hair back into place. "Father will be so proud to have a scientist in the family."

"Speaking of family," Cid went on, "you may soon have a sister-in-law."

"What!?" Monty exclaimed. "Gross!"

"Don't tell me you have a girlfriend!" Vayne asked with a smirk.

"I don't!" the boy insisted. "She's just a friend who's a girl."

Vayne folded his arms knowingly. "Yes, that's how they start…"

"Supposedly she lives here in your city," Cid explained. "I would think a proper introduction is in order…"

"Absolutely not!" Monty snapped.

Cid laughed. "What? You want to wait until you've out-grown her?"

And Monty scowled slightly, trying far too hard to speak beyond his years. "Age is just a number."

"Ah, older…" Vayne mused, mussing the boy's hair once more. "Good work, Little Brother!"

Monty groaned, and Drace finally stepped in:

"Oh, quit embarrassing him. We're not going to terrify the poor girl for sport."

"You'll give her a week to mount her defense, right?" Monty asked.

"I was thinking two," she replied, "but if you think one will do…"

This got a laugh out of him, but he quickly changed the subject while the chance was upon him: "Where's Gabranth?"

"He had some work to do," said Drace.

"What kind of work?" he pressed.

"Nothing important," she explained. "He'll be back late tomorrow night."

"Drace?"

"Yes?"

"I'm ten, not stupid."

Drace looked to Vayne for further instruction, but he merely tilted his head back and groaned audibly. Cid laughed.

"It has something to do with the Resistance, doesn't it?" Monty went on.

"Now how would you know about that?" Vayne asked, folding his arms.

"Word gets around," Monty defended.

At this, Cid stepped in knowingly. "It seems the honorable Judge Famran has returned."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Vayne. "I just sent him to prison."

"Yes, well," Cid mused, "he always was an unruly little buck."

"He was working for Ghis…" Monty explained, taking the Dusk Shard from his pocket and offering it up to his brother. "Brought him this."

Vayne's eyes widened as he slowly took the stone. "My God…"

"The Dusk Shard, right?"

"I believe so. I didn't even know it was missing…"

Monty smiled with a shrug, granting Vayne the relief of knowing that he had bought the lie.

"Thank you, Monty. This could have buried my credibility."

"What would you do without me?" Monty replied with a laugh.

"Nothing well, at least," he answered. "Now, I know you just got here, but Cid and I have some work to finish up; why don't you go get settled, and later on I'll show you around the palace?"

"Alright." He headed for the door with Drace at his side, but looked over his shoulder before exiting. "But you'd better not have any fun without me."

Vayne shook his head with a smile. "Not possible."

Monty grinned back and finally left, leaving what felt to be a still dimness in his wake. Vayne's eyes lingered on the closed door for a moment, while Cid folded his arms with a pleasant smile.

"Ahh, youth is so endearing…"

"And tiring," Vayne added, handing him the Dusk Shard.

He took it casually and placed it in his pocket. "Win some, lose some, as they say."

"He really befriended a Dalmascan girl?"

"Seems so. I've not met her, but I've certainly heard an earful about her." Noting the prince's suddenly sour countenance, he continued with uneasy assurance: "This could be good for you—make peace with the occupied."

Vayne glared. "That wasn't my concern, Cid. How is it that a royal prince should have any contact with a foreign peasant—let alone enough to give you an earful about?"

"He slipped his guards again, of course," the doctor explained with a shrug. "Drace and Gabranth are at least wise to his methods; Ghis didn't stand a chance."

And now Vayne briefly closed his eyes to keep himself from rolling them. "For all your brilliance you certainly seem to lack logic. One of these days that little rascal is going to wander off and never come back. And who do you think Father will suspect?"

"Well, given your track record—"

"Cid!"

"Apologies, lad, but Venat's been rather hung up on it lately."

"Leave Venat out of this," Vayne groaned, shaking his head.

Cid glanced over his shoulder with a look of expectation and spoke to the empty air: "You heard the man." A pause, and then: "…Damn it, I'm getting to that! Never a moment's peace with you, is it?"

Vayne regarded him with a condescending look of weariness. "Cid, please."

"Not my fault," Cid defended.

"Venat, take a vacation."

A moment of silence settled, and then Cid turned to Vayne with amazement. "By God, it worked."

"Look," Vayne went on sternly. "Monty has tight security for a reason. I am not without respect for your work, but you must stop encouraging him."

"I told him not to go off without asking permission."

"Ask permission he will do—it's getting permission that he's not so good at."

Cid sighed. "Yes, yes, I know. Curiosity and the cat, eh? I'll see what I can do, but if this new friend of his isn't too intimidated by all the trappings of royalty, he may soon lose interest anyway."

"Oh, don't talk like that," Vayne said dismally. "When I'm Emperor, my first order of business will be to marry him off to some Rozarrian princess and be done with it."

"Harsh…"

"It's for his own good."

"Ah, harsh but true."

Vayne shook his head, turning to the great window behind him and looking out over the courtyard. "I won't have him drafted into the army to boost Father's pride, or forced on the throne to be manipulated by the Senate…He'll enjoy his job as I enjoy mine."

"I sure hope so," Cid replied. "You were kept waiting fully two years."

"Patience really does pay off," he said, quickly growing bored with watching the workers below repair the stonework that had been destroyed during the fete. "So, what news of Archades? I hope our honored friends in the Senate haven't been giving you too much trouble."

"Oh, they're hard at work as always," said Cid. "Trying to find a dagger for your back."

Vayne smiled. "They're welcome to try."


	10. Chapter 9

_IX._

"Who are you? Really?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm the leading man."

Ashelia promptly punched Balthier in the stomach, and Fran stepped in as he doubled over in pain. "What he means to say is 'It's none of your business.'"

"And this is none of yours," said the princess. "You have your payment; leave us at once."

"What?" asked Balthier. "And miss your homecoming?"

Technically, it was not her homecoming, for they had just docked in Bhujerba's aerodome. The sun had already set as they neared the island, the fleet not bothering to interrupt its course to go on a wild goose chase across the open sky, and midnight now neared. Balthier had no trouble landing in the Imperial ship, though a public warning had already been issued with regards to "Amalia's" escape, and it was clear that Azelas wanted to see her to safety before the coming of dawn, but her argumentative side made this quite difficult—especially with Basch and Balthier present.

"Just because my uncle bought me out of incarceration," the princess growled, "doesn't mean his intentions for Dalmasca are pure."

"Your Highness," Basch interceded, "he would not go through the trouble if he didn't have your best interests in mind."

"Oh, really?" she shot back. "You went through quite a bit of trouble that night in Nalbina; whose interests did you have in mind?"

Quickly remembering how best to deal with her temper from his past years of servitude, Basch met her aggression in tone. "Are you so stubborn as to blind yourself to the present in order to focus on the past?"

"You took my father's life," she sneered. "Why spare mine now? You would have me live in shame!"

And this time he remained steady, allowing her the perception of dominance. "If that is your duty, yes."

Thankfully, his tactics worked, and rather than further aggravate the argument, she folded her arms and lowered her furor, addressing him with steely seriousness. "Perhaps you forget all that Ondore has wrought."

"I do not forget, Majesty. It was by his counsel that we were able to free you. He may act in league with the Empire, but his heart is not."

"And what of _your_ heart? Do you even have one?"

"Will you two knock it off?" Azelas at last interrupted. "It is as he says. I ought not have kept Ondore at so great a distance for so long a time."

"You were only being cautious," Ashelia replied. "Just as I am now."

"Majesty," Azelas pleaded, "Basch was framed by the Empire—the only reason he still lives is to keep Ondore obedient."

She unfolded her arms and placed a fist on her hip. "And in what ludicrous way does that work?"

Azelas turned to Basch in an impatient search for assistance, and the Landisian calmly explained: "Ondore announced to Dalmasca's citizens that I was executed. If they find that I am still alive, they will assume he is in league with Gramis."

"Well," said the princess, "I can think of at least one way to easily remedy such a situation."

Balthier released a blunt laugh. "Damn!"

"You're still here?" she questioned over her shoulder.

"Best entertainment in town!" he replied.

"Look," Azelas continued exhaustedly, addressing the princess with pleading eyes. "For the last few days, our only thought has been your safety; we have no plans yet for dealing with Vayne, and certainly none for dealing with you, if you'll forgive my tone. Highness, I need more time—just a day or two. On our own, we struggle in vain to restore Dalmasca, and once the emperor hears that you're alive, he will be that much more determined to destroy us."

"You're leaving," she growled with an accusing glare.

"We can't just put you on the throne and declare two conquered countries yours," Azelas defended. "I must search out some other way—and until I should find it, I would have Basch remain at your side. Doubt him you may, but I measure his loyalty to Dalmasca no less than my own."

Ashelia released a contemplative sigh, and Balthier rolled his eyes.

"Boring…"

"Somebody hit him," the princess growled.

Fran obliged, delivering a fair smack to the back of his head, and he shot her a glare.

"Ow!"

"I know you would not speak so lightly," Ashelia sullenly told Azelas, "I have placed my life in your hands, and if you choose to place it in another's…who am I to argue?"

"I knew you would understand," he replied with a smile. "Just don't kill him—he comes in handy from time to time."

She gave his arm a sad, playful slap. "Sort of like you."

"I am certain the local Resistance will welcome you, but I would rather you wait for me here." He returned the gesture to her shoulder with less force. "Ondore will keep you safe."

She nodded. "I understand."

With an expression of gratitude and a silent farewell, Azelas walked away, leaving Ashelia with a momentary look of abandonment on her face. Vaan and Penelo both took a studious interest in this, as they did in all aspects of their princess, but she did not maintain the expression for long.

Basch stepped to her side. "Ashe—"

"Listen," she snapped. "I trust Azelas, not you. If I suspect for even a moment that you are working for Archadia—"

"I've heard this all before, Highness. Now how long do you intend to keep the marquis waiting?"

Giving him a final grey-eyed glare of warning, she turned with a huff and headed for the exit, leaving him to follow at her heels.

"Leaving so soon?" Balthier asked.

"Fortunately, yes," she answered. "Would it kill you to follow suit?"

"It might." He gave Fran a nod. "Come on, Fran. Let's get wasted and pretend we own the place."

"Again?" Fran replied, following him as he headed in the direction opposite of the princess.

"Kids," he called out over his shoulder, "if you want a _sane_ ride back to Rabanastre, you know where to find us."

Vaan and Penelo glanced to each other uncertainly, then looked at the two retreating pairs. They resigned to immobility, deciding to remain with the _Strahl_, as such a tactic was likely their best bet for returning home safely.

The marquis had been expecting Ashelia and Basch, though he could not meet them immediately as the last of his Imperial guests had not yet departed. Servants in trust of the Resistance welcomed them to the estate and led them to Ondore's office so that they could await his arrival in safety, though both remained preoccupied with each other to a far greater extent than with the prospect of imprisonment. Ashelia for the most part ignored Basch, though he knew this to be her way of preventing her tongue from slipping—and thus he kept his distance, despite his inherent urge to beg her forgiveness and explain the circumstances that had led to their current positions. He knew, however, that she was in no mood to entertain such explanations, and wouldn't be until she herself brought it up.

His limp had nearly disappeared, but as he walked at her side, he could tell she had taken notice of it. She had ever been wary of those who protected her, not out of distrust, but out of concern for their well-being, but Basch did not expect to earn her concern any time soon, for even should he be proven innocent in the king's murder, he was the man who fought at her husband's side in Nabudis—the man who let Prince Rasler die. She had not held him accountable at the time, mainly because of the depth of her sorrow and the severity of his injuries. In fact she had stuck up for him—while her father told her that he would be given a commanding position in the army upon his recovery, she had simply stared at the floor and stated that he would join her cortege. Azelas had told him this in the infirmary, making it clear that he had no choice, for back then they had known each other better—a true pair of war horses—and Azelas had easily recognized Basch's utter loss of confidence in his own ability to protect those he loved. But when the chance to redeem himself presented, he failed once again.

The two years he spent in Nalbina remained nothing more than a blur of mud, blood, and misery in his mind. At the time, everyday had seemed a month, yet in hindsight, he could recall few details of his detention—indeed, the time he remembered added up to only a few weeks. He remembered weeping upon learning of Ashelia's "suicide," and then the feeling of childish silliness that overcame him when hearing of Captain Vossler's reappearance at the side of a supposed Dalmascan knight, Amalia. His brother's visits provided a grudging comfort, if only because he so missed hearing Landisian spoken to him. Sometimes they hated each other, sometimes they managed to ignore the past, but they had always been able to speak civilly of their respective charges, taking pride in how much trouble their princes could cause.

Even with Rasler gone, he did feel a certain pride that came along with protecting royalty, even if he had failed to do it. This opportunity, however, carried with it the chance to reclaim his dignity, though he predicted it would be far more difficult than watching over Rasler had ever been, for Ashelia was nothing like he remembered her. She had been happy in those days—her eyes had shone brighter, and her countenance beamed with innocence. He had barely even recognized her on the _Leviathan_—she had cut a good two or three feet of her hair off, and where it had once been scooped up in a ponytail atop her head, draping down and flowing with her skirt, it now hung loose around her face, barely brushing her shoulders. Oddly, he took particular notice that she still wore her wedding ring. She and Rasler shared a true and endearing friendship—this he knew—but he didn't recall them ever being in love.

Feeling the thickness of the air between them as they waited in the dim room, he at last glanced down at her, careful not to draw her attention, and spoke: "You look good with short hair."

"Thank you," she replied shortly. After a tense pause, she added: "…What's wrong with your leg?"

"Nothing that won't fade with time."

Another pause followed.

All at once the princess shoved Basch violently against the wall. "You son of a bitch!"

"Just don't quit, do you?" he groaned.

"You never said anything about having a brother!" she went on, slapping his shoulder a few times.

In his own defense, he caught hold of her flailing arms and stilled them, though not without worry that his grasp may bruise her delicate skin. "We haven't been on cordial speaking terms since the fall of Landis," he explained as calmly as he could.

"For God's sake, why not?"

"He accepted Archadian rule and I joined the Resistance." She gave him yet another suspicious glare, but there appeared in her eyes a fleeting wisp of emotion, as though she truly longed to believe him. But both knew that she could not allow herself such susceptibility without solid proof. "He is a Judge…" Basch continued, releasing her wrists, "ordained as Gabranth. He and Judge Drace manage Lamont's security."

She hesitantly folded her arms and took a few steps away from him, hugging her frame almost vulnerably and glowering down at the floor. "…A Judge?"

"I would not be so presumptuous as to expect you to believe it without proof."

"Lamont seemed to believe it…"

"He mustn't ever know about Nalbina."

"If what you say is true, then his bodyguard is a cold-blooded killer," she retorted. "Why should he not know that?"

"Forgive me for saying so," Basch sighed, "but your greatest flaw is your insistence on thinking in absolutes. Gabranth loves Lamont like a son—he would have done anything to maintain his position in his cortege."

"And for that you can forgive him?"

"I can try." He held her gaze for a moment before looking behind her to the opening door. "…Marquis."

"Captain."

Ashelia turned quickly to see that her uncle had indeed arrived, and spoke with a heavy breath of indiscernible emotion: "…Uncle Halim!"

"…Ashe!" He smiled with seemingly exhausted uncertainty, drawing nearer but not daring to embrace her as he would have done before the war. "I tried not to get my hopes up, but…"

At his loss for words, the princess merely nodded. "It's good to see you, too."

"I hope you will forgive us for not telling you sooner," said Basch.

"We weren't entirely sure where your allegiances lie," Ashelia added.

He nodded understandingly. "I hope it is more than obvious now."

"It is," said the princess, "but we've got other worries to tend to."

"…Of course."

Basch nodded his courtesies and headed for the door. "I'll be waiting."

"Don't bother," Ashe replied as he stepped out, letting the door shut softly, leaving in his wake a finalizing silence.

"Then you don't trust him, either?" the marquis asked at length.

"No, but Azelas does. For the time being, I don't have much of a choice."

"I see. Then Azelas was in on this as well…"

"It was his idea from the beginning," she said with a mild nod. "Everyone assumed him dead after the Nalbina incident, so he brought me with him."

Ondore's voice softened briefly, despite his best efforts to strengthen it. "You were buried…"

Ashelia's did not falter. "He dug me up."

"Ashe, how could you abandon your country in its time of need?"

"What other options were there? I'd be of less use dead than weak."

Finally, he found the solidity he sought and spoke in the tone of a true public official. "Weak, indeed."

"I don't need a lecture, Uncle," Ashelia snapped back. "I know when I am beat. At this point the Resistance is dependent solely on you."

"On me?"

"Your money, your influence, your connections to the Empire…"

"All becoming more and more limited as the seasons turn."

"Marquis, we are running out of support as it is—we can't afford to lose you, too."

"What matter is losing me if you have been gained?"

She shook her head. "Just because I am a valid heir doesn't mean I am powerful. Besides, our gain has already been matched—we didn't even know that Gramis had a fourth son!"

"And that is how it must stay." Upon catching the irreverent glare she cast his way, he explained as best he could: "At such an age, he could be easily kidnapped, and the wrath that such an act would incite—"

"Dalmasca will not sink so low!"

"You speak too freely on behalf of your people. You've met the boy, yes?"

Suppressing a sigh of frustration, she nodded.

"You know his nature," the marquis explained, "but those who work in the Resistance will consider him nothing more than a tyrant in the making. The emperor has gone to extreme measures to ensure that Master Lamont remains nonexistent outside of Archadia and but a rumor within."

"Then surely he must trust you if he has disclosed such a secret to you," she insisted.

"It was purely by accident that I met the prince."

"Accident?" she demanded, regretting her tone.

"He stowed away on a research vessel three years ago," Ondore answered with a sigh. "No matter how much security his father provides, he always gains the upper hand."

"Then any wayward Resistance fighters would meet great difficulty in taking him hostage."

"Ashelia, this is a war. For God's sake, don't bring children into it."

"I would never do him any harm, but I am running out of options. In case you haven't noticed, we need all the help we can get."

"And yet in two years you have made no attempt to contact me," he charged.

"Did you truly expect me to, given your actions as of late?" she shot back.

"My actions would not be necessary if you had assumed your throne when the time was upon you."

"Gramis would have killed me!"

"I would have aided you! Bhujerba was strong then. We could have allied with Rozarria."

"And what then?" Her eyes had grown colder, she thought, but for once she felt grateful for it. "Archadia would win, and we'd be worse off, or Rozarria would win and use its new power to conquer us. There is no logic in allying with an empire."

"And you see logic in allying with an empire's playground?"

"Halim, we are past all this. Isn't it enough that I've come to you now? Bhujerba must stand with us."

Ondore released a sigh and shook his head, then reached out to his niece and gingerly brushed some hair from her face. "My little Lady Ashe," he said, seeking any semblance of the child he had known so long ago. "When you were a girl, your only wish was to be carried in my arms. You are a woman grown now, and it seems your wishes have grown proportionately."

A glint of hope sparked in her eyes, sending a brief flash of blue over the impenetrable grey. "Then Bhujerba will aid me?" she asked.

He regarded her briefly before answering. "Suppose for a moment you were to defeat Gramis—what then? You would have Vayne to deal with, and then Lamont."

"They are at least fair-minded."

"They are sons of Solidor—warriors, renown military geniuses." He folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. "And even should you defeat them, would that not level you with Archadia? Would it not provoke Rozarria to strike you down out of fear?"

"You misunderstand, Uncle. I do not wish for war. I want only my own lands back—I will not go on to conquer out of vengeance."

"Easy words to say, my dear, but a difficult promise to keep. Even should you mean it, you cannot simply rebuild your kingdom with the only proof of your birthright stolen. Without that, the Gran Kiltias on Bur-Omisace cannot and will not recognize you as the rightful heir. You may yet be a princess, but without proof of your identity, you are powerless. You will remain with me; we do nothing until the time is right."

"I cannot just wait!"

"Then what does Your Majesty propose we do?"

"Uncle Halim—"

"This is the only aid I can offer you, Ashe. My hands are just as tied as yours."

Ashe struggled to subdue the tear-jerking lump in her throat, but knew that her uncle spoke the truth. For all her dedication and all her determination, she admittedly held very little power, and to act on her impulse now would do nothing more than compromise what fleeting power she did possess. The princess was by no means fond of giving up, but she nevertheless recognized when no other path could be taken.

Accepting her uncle's invitation to stay with him rather than with the local Resistance faction—if only because she felt safer with him than with Basch—she soon found herself in a perfumed chamber that rendered her housing over the last two years downright barbaric in comparison. A painful sense of nostalgia overcame her as she stood at the center of the room, as she had always stayed in it when visiting her uncle in years past. Strangely, it comforted her to know that Basch would sleep in the room across the hall, just as he had when she and Rasler were together. Of course, Azelas usually slept next door, which had never made much of a difference until now. He had always been her favorite: a member of her cortege for nearly twenty years—the head of her security for nearly twelve. In all that time, there had been only three people he had ever trusted to be left alone with her: her mother, her husband, and Basch. She could not recall how many times she had scolded him for his unrelenting wariness, how often she had questioned why he did not trust her father or her uncle or even the other members of her cortege so deeply, but he never humored such inquiries, insisting that caution was the heart of his job.

Even as he trained her to take on her undercover identity, he had seen to her safety. He introduced her to the troops as a general he had served on the Nabradia/Landis border, claiming her bravery to be incomparable, but through his act she could see the fear that plagued him for exposing her to the dangers and horrors of the military, and thus she worked to ease his anxiety by becoming the best soldier he had ever seen. Living like a commoner for the past two years indeed seemed to have hardened her, but she hadn't noticed until now, as she stared at the great fanciful bed before her, not too very different from the bed she had shared with Rasler.

The thought almost got a smile out of her. All too clearly could she remember standing side-by-side, staring at their bed, weakly trying to come up with excuses. She remembered being lectured the next day by her mother-in-law, while her father did the same to her husband. It had all been about alliances and heirs, of course, but the seventeen-year-old bride and groom had been completely oblivious to this. She remembered Basch and Azelas, hung over from the wedding—how she cried to them, wishing she hadn't agreed to the marriage, not that it would have made a difference. Never before had she been so embarrassed.

"Good," Azelas had said. "I don't have to kill him after all."

That afternoon they left for Nabudis, where she would spend the majority of her married years, and Rasler's parents had been most surprised to hear that he and Ashe had decided not to join their security forces—that Basch and Azelas would run things jointly, just as they had before the wedding, for truly, given the nature of their marriage, nothing had changed. In hindsight, they truly were good knights. At times it seemed as though they were the only ones in the world who never asked why Dalmasca and Nabradia even bothered with the treaty, why the prince and princess never kissed or even held hands in public, why she wasn't pregnant.

Azelas had first been assigned to her when she was only six years old. She'd had such a crush on him, she remembered—the only man in her cortege who wasn't old and boring and scary. He hadn't ranked high, then, but he did his job well enough to earn the appreciation of both Ashe and her father, and thus he ascended to the highest position in her security by the time she turned fourteen. He protected her without smothering her, let her get in trouble without getting hurt. He loved her without controlling her.

Basch had, over time, become a good friend. Rasler had never been one to keep a guardian for long, too rambunctious and free-spirited, but Basch had recognized this from the beginning and the two got on famously. When Ashe and Rasler planned to make mischief, Azelas and Basch had been the only knights who could be trusted to not only keep their mouths shut, but even on occasion cooperate. As Ashe remembered, they had been quite wary of each other at first, though their relationship had always been a mildly competitive one. But they were friends, she knew, and Azelas trusted him.

Now, if only she could bring herself to do the same.

It seemed she had become a little too hardened in the last two years. Her recent life had focused on fencing and politics and putting up a tough act for her troops, and while she had grown to respect the bond between soldiers, she could not bring herself to trust Basch as she did Azelas. It occurred to her then than perhaps her soldier's instinct was of little use anymore, and she might do well to take her bodyguard's word over her own muddled emotions. But even this she found too difficult to accept, having fit herself in the role of leader a bit too well. But she _could_ acknowledge her new position. She was no longer a general; once again, she was a princess.

And a princess would not tuck herself into a voluptuous bed and sleep while her country suffered.

Stopping not even to change out of her high-class Archadian garb, she stole out of the room and down the stairs to the scullery where she accurately remembered there being a ground-floor window with a broken lock—no doubt Monty had made good use of this as well. Once off of the estate, she headed straight across town to the aerodome, lending little thought to what she left behind. Vaan and Penelo, meanwhile, passed their time waiting around the aerodome for Balthier and Fran by telling of their respective adventures over the course of the last few days, and when they spied a shadow sneak into the _Strahl_, they followed promptly, figuring their ride to be departing without them. They certainly did not expect to find their princess at the controls, struggling with growing frustration to deactivate the security lock.

"What are you doing?" Penelo asked a tad urgently.

Ashe looked up briefly, but then returned her stoic gaze to the control panel. "I'm going to find the Midlight Shard. I'll return the ship later."

"Are you crazy?" Vaan asked.

"I don't have time to wait for Azelas," she insisted. "This is something that I have to do. He'd let me if he were here."

"So you're gonna go off by yourself?" Vaan pressed.

"I'm the only one who knows where it's hidden. There's no point in bringing others into this."

Vaan shook his head. "Don't you have any idea what the emperor will do when he finds out you're alive?"

"He'll send out his pathetic fleets like he always does. I will not be made to hide—I'll fight alone if I must."

"You still have Basch, right?" said Penelo.

"I'd rather not."

"And besides," Vaan added, "you can't just go around stealing people's ships."

"Who are you to talk of stealing?"

"Hey, come on! I just didn't want the Dusk Shard in the hands of the Archadians."

"And where is it now?"

He leaned back with a groan, trying not to roll his eyes at his princess and failing. "I did it for Dalmasca, okay?"

"Well, I'm doing this for Dalmasca," she snarled, "so either help or get lost."

"Why are you so damn cold all the time?"

"I'm trying to concentrate!"

Suddenly Balthier's voice boomed over the ship's intercom: "That's quite enough, Your Majesty." All three turned to the back of the cockpit to see both pirates standing expectantly in the doorway. Balthier held up the mobile commlink that had enabled him to eavesdrop on their entire conversation: "What do you think? A bit over the top?"

She sneered. "I'm just borrowing it."

"Like hell you are." He stepped in and put the commlink back in his pocket. "Go borrow one of your uncle's ships."

"I tried. They're all locked."

"Tough luck. I'm leaving and you're staying."

"You can't!" She stood abruptly, more hurt than angry.

"Trust me," he said. "You're better off here."

"I am useless here," she insisted. "The marquis just wants to protect me—he thinks I'm a child!"

"Well, you certainly do have a tendency to act like one."

The hurt dissipated and the anger resurfaced. "Hey!"

"Sorry, Highness," he went on. "We have too much on our hands to continue holding yours."

Penelo stepped forward timidly, pained to see her princess helpless. "Well, Balthier…" she offered. "…Suppose you kidnapped her instead?"

"No thanks," he scoffed. "I just spent three weeks clearing my name."

"But you're a skypirate aren't you?" Ashe added with a new light in her eyes. "Just steal me. Is that so much to ask?"

He smiled. "What do you have that I would want?"

"The Dynast King's treasure." She paused for a moment, having blurted it out with little thought, but upon seeing that both pirates—even Vaan and Penelo—had perked at the mention of such a thing, she went on with a stronger voice: "The Midlight Shard is in King Raithwall's tomb—along with all of the riches of his lifetime."

Balthier glanced at Fran for approval, then folded his arms and turned cunningly back to the princess. "King Raithwall, huh? You know, you don't seem like the type to sell off all of your forefather's wealth in exchange for a free ride and one little rock."

"That little rock will put me on the throne…" she said.

"…Then she'll have all of her own father's wealth," Vaan added.

"Hm. Good point." He smiled. "Alright, Princess, consider yourself stolen."

"Thank you!"

Before he could further frustrate her, Basch spoke up from the cockpit door: "Balthier, are you completely insane?"

"No," Balthier groaned, "just slightly."

"Kidnapping royalty is a serious offense," Basch continued as he approached the clearly not amused Ashelia. "It won't do much to keep further bounties off your head."

"How much is the price on_ your_ head these days, I wonder?" Balthier shot back.

"Captain," said the princess, "you know as well as I do that we are powerless without proof of my lineage."

"That I do," he answered, "and I have no intention of interfering. But Azelas will have my head if anything should happen to you, so I'm afraid if you intend to go running off with a bunch of pirates, I must insist that you allow me to escort you in his place."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Tell that to Ghis." She glowered at him as a cat regards an empty food dish, but he continued undaunted: "You don't trust me—that's understandable. Until you no longer feel the need to keep me at a distance, why don't you let Vaan look after you?"

Vaan's eyes widened. "Huh?"

"You know he's in it for Dalmasca," said Basch.

Ashe shortly looked the boy up and down, then at last relented. "…Alright."

"Hey," he injected, "don't I get any say in this?"

"You're protecting your princess," Basch replied. "Isn't that every patriot's dream?"

Vaan hung his head exhaustedly. "…Well, okay. But Penelo's coming with us."

"Good idea," said Balthier. "She's got friends in high places."

Penelo cast him a glare.

"Shall we leave then," asked Fran, "or is there something yet left to argue over?"


	11. Chapter 10

_X._

The unfamiliar clanking of armor echoed throughout Rabanastre's royal halls, a resounding anathema to the quiet desert culture they had witnessed since their construction. Bergan's heavy footsteps silenced Drace's, while Judge Zargabaath strolled along between them, ever the mediator in their debates, and—as usual—longing for the hour when he would be returned to his ship and allowed refuge from the rampant political nonsense that plagued the royal guards. Drace could debate with the best of them, but he always dreaded her spats with Bergan, mainly because of how clear the two made their contempt for each other. She had approved of Ferrinas and Zecht—if only in the slightest—and undoubtedly blamed Vayne for their deaths, which did little for the prince, given that she had hated him since long before. So too did she dislike Bergan for his haughty ascension and arrogance in the conduction of his less-than-admirable duties. She didn't particularly like Zargabaath, either, but he at least knew when to keep his mouth shut, and therefore earned a few points in her favor. She tolerated Gabranth and never passed up an opportunity to spar with Ghis.

Worse, however, was Bergan. He had once overseen the Third Fleet, but earned it little recognition in the war and thus turned to his skills in politics to keep him afloat in the upper levels of Archadian society. He supervised all manner of war crimes and illicit activity, and was privy to the more complex workings of Vayne and Gramis—and he delighted in rubbing this in the other Judges' faces. Imposing as Drace was, all Judges preferred her over Bergan—in fact, they preferred anyone over Bergan.

Since the fete, he had been suspicious of Drace, and hounded her to no end until she finally voiced her concerns that the Senate had grown bored and unimpressed with Gramis and now sought to replace him. When pressed further, she told him that she feared they would not serve Vayne complacently, and Zargabaath mirrored her worry that Lamont would be forced in his place. Bergan, of course, remained steadfast in his praise of Vayne.

"The Senate may play at intrigue," he insisted, "but Lord Vayne is not one to be brought down easily. The entire military waits upon his orders, from the war council down to the rank and file. What better blade than he to strike down the enemies of the Empire?"

Drace withheld a laugh. "Your Honor reminds me of Zecht, two years since. He, too, put his trust in Lord Vayne's strength, and look what became of him."

"I will not hear you malign Judge Zecht!" Bergan snapped, rolling his eyes beneath the protection of his helmet. "He was a noble warrior—and trust in Lord Vayne is never ill-placed."

"Vayne took two of his own brothers' lives," said Drace. "He is ruthless beyond contempt."

And now Bergan laughed. "Ruthless? Would he were moreso! He gives traitors no quarter, be they even of his own blood. How fitting for one who would bear the burden of empire."

"But could we bear him?" Drace replied, an oddly feminine ring accompanying her sarcasm. "What do you think, Zargabaath? Surely you do not believe his brothers were traitors."

"So found Lord Gramis," Zargabaath stated dryly. "You would do well to mind your tongue, Drace—that matter is long past."

Telling Drace to mind her tongue was like telling Monty to stay put. She lived for a good debate and seemed to get quite a kick out of stating her mind when she knew it would spark controversy—a habit feared by all but the ever-reserved Gabranth, who found it admirable to say the least and entertaining to say just slightly more. But although Drace had her fun with the other Judges, only with Bergan did she argue on a serious note. In truth, she held no particular grudge against him, but she simply could not put her trust in a man who defended Vayne's past treatment of his brothers. With Monty under her protection, she found it a reasonable point of paranoia, and though Gabranth didn't dare speak of such things, he had since the beginning whole-heartedly agreed.

"Honestly," Bergan told Drace, "you'll believe anything if it poses a threat to Lamont."

"It's my job, after all," she conceded. "He would have been killed long ago if his father let him run free."

"Now there's the truth," Bergan scoffed. "His Highness has lost all sense of discipline. That damned girl softened him."

"So defamation of Judge Zecht is unacceptable," Drace mused, "but Judge Ferrinas' daughter is fair game?"

"Lineage is not always as reliable as it should be," he growled back. "A proper empress would have ruled at her husband's side, not scolded him into political stagnation. Had she an ounce of her father's gall, Rozarria would be ours by now."

"However can you live with such anger?" Drace asked airily.

"Settle down, you two," Zargabaath groaned. "This bickering will lead you nowhere."

"Who are you to say so?" Bergan replied. "Don't act as though you didn't notice the emperor's weakness after he met her."

"Why must I always be in the middle of these things?" Zargabaath sighed.

"He's not going to let it rest until hears what he wants to hear," Drace warned.

"If you must know," said Zargabaath, "I think it was Master Lamont who led the emperor to his present state, and I commend him for it. I like to think of myself as a patriot, but I've seen this war's toll taken before my own eyes, and in my opinion the cost has far exceeded the worth."

"And yet if Rozarria is not properly handled," Bergan answered, "it will have all been for nothing. We stand on the brink of world domination. If Lord Gramis would but lead us one more step forward…" He shook his head, his disappointment clear even through the steel helmet, and continued despairingly: "…But I suppose it's useless. Indeed, Master Lamont has weakened his heart. We must wait for Lord Vayne to take the throne; he will see this war finished."

"Now that we can agree on," said Drace. "For better or worse."

"But who is to say that Lord Vayne will not bend to his brother's influence?" Zargabaath asked, allowing Bergan a nod of acknowledgement. "Even you become a different man in his presence."

"I certainly wish no ill on the prince," Bergan replied, "but he is as weak as he is sweet; Lord Vayne will recognize this."

"Let us hope."

Drace rolled her eyes, though her helmet masked the gesture. "Need I remind you gentlemen that Master Lamont could very well be listening in?"

"Isn't it past his bedtime?" Bergan asked.

"He's staying up with Lord Vayne until Gabranth returns—not that a little thing like bedtime has ever stopped him before."

Zargabaath laughed. "No girls allowed, eh?"

"He's at that age," she admitted. "It may even do him good to pay more attention to politics. He'll have to face it sooner or later."

"Come now, Drace," Zargabaath went on. "He's just a boy; he's got better things to do."

Suddenly Monty rounded a corner up ahead, sliding a bit clumsily on the gleaming stone floor, and dashed across the hall before them with a small laugh. The game was clear, for he wore Gabranth's helmet. His footsteps faded and were soon cut off abruptly by the slamming of a door, and before long Gabranth came clanking around the corner as well. He gave his fellow Judges and an exasperated look of curiosity and they pointed him in Monty's direction, which he quickly followed.

"Pathetic," Bergan grumbled. "It's been too long since you saw any real action. For nearly a decade now, you and Gabranth have been too busy playing mommy and daddy to properly serve Archadia in the war."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" Drace mused.

"You forget that Gabranth's service is what ultimately landed us Dalmasca," said Zargabaath.

"Two years ago," Bergan added.

Both men had more to say, of course, but didn't dare say it in Drace's presence.

It had long been suspected that something more was going on between Drace and Gabranth, or had gone on, or was bound to go on someday. There was no proof, of course, and neither seemed the type to mix work and play, and probably the most compelling evidence against it was that the two would be hard pressed to ever find a moment alone together—they traded shifts regularly, and only seemed to keep each other's company when in Monty's presence. Furthermore, Drace was ten years Gabranth's senior, not to mention she hailed of aristocracy while he was just the mutt of farmers from a kingdom now extinct. At times, the other Judges would admit that they were likely thinking too hard into the matter—that they were bored, and, like giddy schoolgirls, needed something to gossip about. But the topic continued to come up, regardless of how immature they so often felt when discussing it.

The rumors had been persistent enough to reach those involved, and neither of them had given their comrades any opportunity to expand on their theories. Indeed, it was difficult to study their interaction, since they allowed themselves so little of it. Their only reliable time alone together was just after putting Monty to bed, when the servants would vacate the kitchen for an hour or so before the nightshift arrived, leaving it the only unguarded room in the palace. For that hour, they could speak without fear of eavesdroppers or Vayne's spies, which proved most advantageous, as both quite often had a fair bit to say about Vayne. For nine years, that had been a casual part of the routine. They'd take off their helmets. They'd talk without restraint. She'd have tea and he'd have whiskey—both knew the tea to be nothing more than a disguise for her own nightcap, but, being a lady of breeding, she couldn't openly admit such things. At the end of the hour, they'd hunt down Monty, who never failed to escape the confines of his room and wreak some form of havoc on the palace by then. Gabranth had found it best to let him wear himself out before bed and deem sleep his own idea, and though Drace had at first declared this a terrible method of parenting, once she realized how well it worked, she ceased her judgments and went along with it. Though she hated to admit it, Gabranth had an unmistakable talent for dealing with unruly children—a skill, she feared, he had learned from his years of keeping Basch in line.

"He's useless now," Bergan went on. "We don't need some dog from Landis to help our hunt—the prey is already ours."

Drace nodded slightly and repeated Gabranth's words to her so long ago: "It's a shame they do not know when they are conquered."

"Can't say I ever expected as much from you…" said Zargabaath.

"Why not say so to the emperor," Bergan pushed. "A word from you, and he'll be back on the front lines."

"And I'll be left to wrangle Monty up on my own everyday," she replied. "Do you really think me that stupid? Besides, he's not useless in his element. I'm confident he could never be replaced."

"And when Monty's older?" Bergan asked. "What then? He won't always need babysitters."

"That depends on what's to become of him," she said coldly.

Bergan laughed, shaking his head with pity. "What does it matter? He'll be either a plaything of the Senate or a son-in-law of Emperor Margrace."

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed. "He'd settle for no princess—he's already got his heart set on a peasant. And those mud-witted Senators don't stand a chance. The fools think a child emperor's strings easy to pull from the shadows, but they will find that Master Lamont is no puppet."

"So you would flatter him," Bergan sneered. "The boy takes after his mother—he hasn't a violent bone is his body."

"You've never fenced with him," Zargabaath muttered.

"What do you think he would do?" Drace asked. "Certainly not as he's told, I hope."

"He's an escape artist," said Bergan. "He'd bow to any demand they should make of him, so long as they promise him it will end in peace."

"Nonsense," she replied. "He would refute their petty demands and acquire peace by his own means."

"Either way," Bergan insisted, "he will cow at the prospect of bringing about this war's end."

"And either way," Zargabaath added, "he will not get it."

"…Oh, really?" said Drace.

Zargabaath nodded. "I believe the Senate would at first be most pleased to be handed a docile lamb for their own shepherding, but when they realize the truth, they will bare their teeth and devour him." Drace and Bergan both seemed to lose their fervor for the argument upon hearing this, but Zargabaath continued steadily, his eyes trained forward beneath his helmet: "Master Lamont is indeed an escape artist—he will go over their heads without hesitation. He will be a true dictator."


	12. Chapter 11

_XI._

"Well, this was a good idea."

Ashe rolled her eyes, choosing not to dignify Balthier's comment with a response. They stood in the _Strahl's _cockpit looking out to the wide expanse of barren yellow before them—the Dalmascan Sandsea. It laid past the Estersands, where only a few watering holes provided life, and stretched on for miles and miles, eventually reaching the ocean. During the winter months it grew even larger, but for now the tides ran high, covering the edges of the Sandsea with about three feet of water for quite some distance before dropping off at the underwater valley that marked the Rozarrian border. This was the only contact with any significant body of water that Dalmasca claimed as its own, and the jungles of Rozarria could be seen plainly from the shore.

However, the _Strahl_ did not idle anywhere near the water—indeed, Ashelia had bid Balthier stop at nearly the exact middle of the desert, where they had come upon a massive funnel of sand held aloft by whirling winds. Though she had assured him it would be safe, he refused to land the ship any closer, and now debated landing it at all, for he feared she may go off and die amid the scorching sands and searing winds—and then, as he loudly complained, he'd never get paid.

The two had engaged in a heated debate that none of the others dared interrupt, but luckily—before things turned violent—an Atomos appeared on the horizon, rendering the entire group silent with fear. Before approaching, however, the tiny craft hailed the _Strahl_, offering a line of communication, which the princess took while Balthier and Fran readied the guns. But their preparations proved unneeded, for Azelas's voice soon sounded through the commlink.

"Honestly, Princess. Can't I leave you alone for ten minutes?"

"Your replacement didn't complain," she replied.

"I thought him above consorting with skypirates."

"It was Her Majesty's decision," Basch defended. "I had little choice in the matter."

"I'm sorry we didn't wait for you, Azelas," said Ashelia, "but I could not stand to be useless."

He sighed, slowly bringing the Archadian craft nearer to the _Strahl_. "Couldn't you have at least sought out more appropriate transportation?" he asked.

"Balthier and Fran are worthy of our trust," she answered matter-of-factly.

"Whoa…" said Balthier. "Now there's something I never thought I'd hear."

"He thinks ever and always on his own profit," the princess went on. "Assure him of it and he shall remain true to our cause."

"Much better," Balthier added.

"I do not share Your Majesty's faith," said Azelas.

"Well, I have to put up with Basch," she contended, "so you're going to put up with my pirates."

Basch and Azelas both let out groans, and Fran and Balthier turned to Ashe and spoke in unison: "_Your _pirates?"

Vaan and Penelo snickered.

"We're stopping here," Ashe said definitively with a glare toward Balthier. "I'll meet you on the ground."

He conceded, and Balthier at last docked the _Strahl_, though not without giving the princess a grudging lecture on how ridiculous this whole journey had become. The kids were happy for some fresh air, Vaan leaping out into the sand with a _thud_ and Penelo following giddily with avian delicacy, but the others remained on guard, painfully aware that they hadn't enough water to last more than two or three days in the weather and that even if they had, with the Empire in search of them, lingering anywhere for too long a time could prove fatal.

Azelas, thankfully, had another day's worth of water for the entire group, and carried over his should a mysterious bag of coarse fiber and indiscernible shape, which he offered to Ashelia upon meeting amid the sand dunes.

"For you."

She cocked her head curiously. "…What?"

"Consider it an early birthday gift," he explained.

She hesitantly took the sack from him and peered inside, then let out a sigh of relief. "Ah, God bless you!" She fell to the ground and kicked off her dainty shoes, then pulled out of the bag a pair of combat boots to replace them.

"The marquis sympathizes with your plight," Azelas went on, "yet the Empire watches his every move. He can keep whispers of your 'abduction' silent for only so long, and the Empire plans to pass off a lady of their own ranks as you by means of the Dusk Shard and the blood they took on the _Leviathan_. The only way we will gain any ground is by proving to the people that you are the true queen."

"One step ahead of you," said Ashelia. "The Midlight Shard is in Raithwall's Tomb, and I have a healthier blood supply than Ghis."

"And the tomb is all the way out here?" Azelas asked.

"Talk about out of the way," Vaan added.

"It could be worse," the princess snapped. And then, turning back to Azelas: "Do you have a plan for after we get the Midlight Shard?"

"Several," he said with an uncertain nod. "To be honest, Highness, all strategies at this point are dependent on our ability to prove your heritage."

"I see." She stood, having finished lacing her boots up, and tore off the last few inches of her hem, shortening the skirt so that it hovered near her knees, rather than at her ankles. "Well, we must be quick. It's bad enough that I should be revealed so soon; who's to say what will happen if they reveal two of me?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Azelas. "But you couldn't have been discovered at a better time—another bodyguard shows up just as you need him."

"Indeed," she replied. "Vaan! Step it up! You're a terrible babysitter!"

She started off into the sand with Vaan and Penelo close at her sides and Fran and Balthier a few paces from her heels.

Azelas turned to Basch. "Still?"

Basch rolled his eyes. "I'm working on it."

They followed after the princess, who appeared to be in slightly higher spirits than she had been of late, not only because of the favorable turn of events aboard the _Leviathan_, but because she now stood in her own territory, the great deserts of Dalmasca—her home. Her shimmery almond-hued hair appeared paler in the desert sun, and the bland surroundings provided sufficient contrast to bring out the powdery blue of her eyes. Though her demeanor improved little during the trek, she would on occasion allow Azelas a sly felinesque smirk—a show of calm bemusement with his attempts at getting her to brighten up in light of the recent events—and Vaan and Penelo found it fascinating, for they had only ever known their princess as the regal, tragic lady who symbolized the misfortune and heartbreak that had befallen their home. Even Fran and Balthier looked on her with subtle hope. It was as though this new strong princess had at once destroyed and replaced the former weakened one—as if she embodied the fighting spirit of the Dalmasca of old.

Ashelia led them forward to the edge of the sandstorm, trudging a bit haphazardly in her dress. All had been wary as they neared the funnel of the storm, but soon noticed that the wind did not stir about them, and in fact appeared to remain quite calm in spite of the whirling sand and dust.

"Don't worry," she assured them as she approached the dim cloud. "It's not real."

"Not real?" asked Vaan.

"I don't know how," said the princess. "But I suppose that doesn't matter."

She slowly reached her arm out into the storm, feeling it to be harmless—nothing more than a passing breeze.

"A Mist illusion," said Fran. "I did not know humans could work such things."

"Maybe they can't," said Balthier. "Her Highness certainly seems to have that old-fashioned Viera spunk."

"Funny," Ashe sneered, stepping through the illusion.

The other followed cautiously, learning to their great relief that the wall of sand was mere inches thick and almost entirely without sensation. Within the funnel of the illusion stood a grand stone temple, weathered with time but still as enthralling a sight as it had been upon its construction. Ornate carvings adorned every block of every surface, and tall, gleaming columns marked the entryway, which was itself ornamented with countless gems and metalwork. A tall staircase led to the front, and though the sun glared down on the tomb, the Mist illusion prevented the casting of any shadow.

"Whoa…" Vaan said dumbly, stepping forward with reverent awe.

"…That's the Dynast King's tomb?" Penelo asked in wonder.

"It's bigger than I thought," Ashelia replied with a nod.

Balthier shrugged. "It's not so great."

"I take it we'll have to be going in…" Azelas said with clear concern.

"The Midlight Shard is deep inside," Ashe explained. "It might take a day or two, but it should be safe."

"You know the way?" Balthier asked.

She hesitated. "Well…no."

"No?" he pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just stories handed down in my family," she said curtly. "All I know is the tomb is in the storm and the stone is in the tomb."

"And you're basing the future of your entire country on this?"

"Balthier…" Vaan warned.

"Wait here," the princess growled. "I'll go unlock it."

As she ascended the steps leading up to the massive stone doors, Balthier folded his arms critically.

"She's going to get us all killed," he said.

"She's overconfident," Azelas defended, "but she won't make any hasty decisions."

Ashelia began prying loose the jewels that adorned the entryway and rearranging them, though the spectators could not clearly see the pattern in this.

"You know," Balthier went on, "that whole saving-your-asses-from-Ghis thing was a one-time deal."

"We can handle him," Vaan replied.

"Sure you can," the pirate scoffed. "We were all damn lucky last time. He's smart and influential—and he's a certified hardass to boot. He'll chew you up and spit you out."

"You think the princess can't handle that?" asked Vaan.

"I think she can't admit that she can't," replied Balthier.

"Come on, guys," Penelo scolded. "Be nice."

"Where's the fun in that?" Balthier asked.

"Unfortunately," said Basch, "he's got a point. Her Majesty cannot abide weakness—least of all in herself."

"Which is probably why she makes for such a great soldier," Azelas added.

Ashelia summoned them forth with a sharp whistle, the doors before her creaking open and expelling clouds of dust from their edges.

"At any rate," Azelas went on, starting up the steps, "we're nothing without her."


	13. Chapter 12

Just to clarify, the side story for Basch is thanks to my friend and occasional beta reader Angela. We both found it amazing that with all of the distractions his character was given, he still remained boring and seemed to have no clear motivation. Here's hoping this doesn't just make it worse…

_XII._

The tomb's innards reeked of must and disuse, a moist, choking Mist clouding the air and dampening the intruders as they entered. Vaan let out a squeaking, rodent-like cough upon first entering, and Balthier cast a wary glance on Fran, but she answered him with an expression of tranquility, and thus he did not voice his uncertainty.

The nature of the Mist that surrounded them seemed difficult to understand, for at times it appeared as a simple white fog billowing at their feet, and yet it also wafted up in mid air, translucent until the light hit it surface at just the right angle. Still at other times, it seemed slivery—a mirror of sorts—and reflected their images all around them, some reversed, some upside down, some opaque, and some blurrily distorted. Bits of magicite lit the many corridors within the tomb, lending a subtle glow to the shapes and motions of the Mist, and every so often it seemed to adopt a life-like range of flexion, trailing after them like fingers and embracing them like smoke.

The journey proved quite short in distance, but several sets of doors blocked the way—all locked with encrypted keys that the princess had to wrack her brain to decode. The language of Dalmasca had changed little over the years, but it had long since been watered down in written form, the easier to make global communication possible, and the etched letters quite often bore an obscuringly thick layer of dust. Quite often the inscription of one door would lead them to another—a hidden wall panel, or a removable stone in the floor—that would lead them through a winding tunnel full of similar doors and riddles that culminated in a small chamber containing the key to the door they had originally sought to unlock. The sheer boredom of constantly backtracking wore heavily on all of them.

After a full day of solving puzzles and putting up with Balthier's remarks, the princess at last declared that they would rest for the night, and the cortege gratefully obeyed. While the surroundings did little to relax any of them, exhaustion had laid their imaginations to near waste, and they soon fell fast asleep, but Vaan found himself unable to remain so, for each creak and moan of the ancient tomb roused him with a start.

Upon waking in the darkness and being unable to lull himself asleep yet again, he found that the torch they had employed had been moved a few yards away, now vaguely lighting Ashelia's huddled form in the distance. Though he at first tried to return to sleep, he could not let his mind rest until he knew what troubled the princess so, and thus rose and approached her, speaking quietly so as not to wake the others.

"Hey, Princess. Can't sleep?"

She regarded him briefly, but then turned her eyes back to the darkness beyond the corridor. "No."

"Me, either," he replied. "This place is creepy."

"Hm."

He paused for a moment, looking her over with a rather curious expression of rejection, and then hesitantly began to back off. "…Uh, right. I'll just let you—"

"Vaan?"

"…Huh?"

She turned to face him, her eyes shining with concern. "Do you hear that?"

"…I don't think so," he said, lingering awkwardly in place.

"You're sure?" she asked.

"What am I supposed to hear?"

"I don't know." She returned her gaze to the floor. "It must just be an echo of something."

"Bats?" he suggested, sitting at her side—though minding his boundaries.

"Perhaps," she said distantly.

"…You okay?"

"Fine. Just nervous."

"Because of bats?"

"Because of Basch."

"Oh, yeah. You know…I think he's telling the truth. And really, I hate to say that."

She huffed slightly, resting her chin on her knees. "I want to say that. There's just too much to consider."

"I know," Vaan conceded. "Still seems weird that he'd stick with Landis and his brother would go with Archadia."

Ashelia turned her head slightly away from him and spoke in a softened tone: "Basch lost more than his brother did." Receiving a curious glance from Vaan, she continued: "He had a wife once. He doesn't talk about her."

"Geez," Vaan said quietly, "I had no idea…"

"I heard she was pregnant when they killed her…"

"…Second thoughts?"

"What happened to him has nothing to do with what happened to my father. If he did it, I'm not granting him any excuses."

He nodded. "_If_."

"Even so, how am I supposed to trust the brother of a murderer?"

She raised her head abruptly, then, turning to peer down the blackened hallway and leaving no space in the conversation for a response, but Vaan could not divine what had caught her attention, try as he did to see it within the shadows at which she stared.

"…You really don't hear that?" she asked.

"No…" he replied, shaking his head apologetically. "…Sorry."

The next morning, after spending nearly an hour on a single puzzle, they gained access to the floor below them. An ancient elevator had laid dormant below a set of doors, invisible to them, as it blended into the stonework of the floor. The doors they soon exposed as decoys, for when Ashelia compressed the proper stones that should have unlocked them, nothing happened. For a moment, they took into consideration that their solution had been wrong, but this seemed unlikely—the many stones that decorated the doors bore inscribed letters, and they had pushed back the ones that spelled _Dalmasca_ and _Nabradia_, as prompted by the engravings on either side of the doorway, which depicted Raithwall's daughters being crowned. However, after a moment's thought, the ground beneath them rumbled, slowly lowering to the basement level that none had suspected existed.

Before leaving the platform, they scanned the visible portions of the corridor before them for an exit, finding a staircase off to the side that led to a wall, which, even as they looked upon it, slid apart, allowing for a safe return to the upper level. The hallway before them appeared quite long and unobstructed by further safety precautions, though it remained dank and dim, lit but minimally by a few strategically placed chunks of magicite. They started down it nonetheless, realizing as they walked that they were heading for a chamber that sat underground, outside of the protection of the false storm above them. Though the people of the old days lacked technology, it seemed they had no short supply of cleverness.

Presently—and seemingly out of nowhere—Fran questioned Balthier in Vieran: "How much longer do you think you will live?"

While the randomness of it did not conform to the usual human conversation forms, Balthier had grown accustomed to such outbursts, and had in fact become fond of using them himself, and thought nothing of it. "Oh, I don't know…" he replied, also in Vieran. "I figure I've probably got another fifty years in me—maybe sixty or seventy if I'm careful, but how likely is that?"

"But fifty at least?" she asked.

Now he looked at her with mild concern. "What are you getting at?"

"Promise me fifty." Suddenly, a pain seemed to grow in her mind, and she stopped and held her head weakly for a moment before straightening, only to find the whole party now looked on her with curious concern.

"Too much for you?" asked Balthier, abandoning the Vieran cover upon noticing the wariness of his companions' glares.

"Not yet," she replied, "but it thickens. I should go no farther."

"What's wrong?" Ashe inquired, more out of suspicion than worry.

"Mist gathers underground," Fran explained. "It runs deep in this place."

Balthier stepped in glibly. "We can't feel it, but Viera are particularly sensitive to it. Nothing to worry about, though—Fran knows her limit."

"Well…" the princess continued. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not the trusting type, are you?"

She gave him a sharp glare, and Fran spoke before he could worsen the situation. "It can be very dangerous is these amounts, but it is also an aid. A dense Mist allows the working of powerful things."

"That doesn't sound good," said Basch.

"Do not fret," she replied. "At such concentrations, your magicite should be a sight to behold."

"Let us hope," said Ashe. "Will you not continue on with us, then?"

"I'm afraid not."

"As you wish. We will look for you on our way out."

The rest of the group turned to press forth on their journey, when Fran suddenly called out:

"Bal!"

Balthier continued walking, turning only briefly to address her in Vieran. "Fifty, I promise."

They continued down the corridor, turning a corner and prying open another door, which led, of course, to yet another corridor. Before long, Penelo became aware of a small gathering of Mist near her skirt and weakly batted at it a few times to no avail. Just as the phenomenon began to irritate her, she recalled the piece of synthetic nethicite that Monty had given her and pulled it out of her pocket. Sure enough, the Mist followed it as she swished it about, and from time to time it warmed faintly and glowed dimly, though not so hot or so bright as it had back in the Lhusu Mines. Taking note of her deft giggles and subdued dancing, Balthier addressed her a bit more curtly than he had originally intended:

"What the devil is that?"

She quickly clutched the stone in both hands and gave him a glare. "None of your business!"

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong," he continued, matching her pace, "but it looks quite a lot like nethicite."

"How do you know about that?" she asked.

"None of _your _business," he answered.

"Don't you think for minute you're ever getting your hands on it…"

"Are you kidding? You couldn't pay me to take that chunk of garbage. Nethicite is notoriously ill-favored among Fran's gods."

"I'll take your word for it."

"How does it eat up the Mist like that?" Vaan asked, giving the stone an apprehensive inspection.

"I don't really know," Penelo replied, holding it out to give him a better look. "Feel it; it makes it all warm."

He touched it with a small, hesitant, mouse-like motion, then took it from her and felt it more wholly, his amazement showing clearly on his face with an almost childish wonderment.

While he continued to inspect the nethicite and Penelo attempted to explain to the others what Monty had explained of it to her, the princess paused eerily, gazing into the stone's depths. Faintly—much like the chirp of a far-off bird—it whispered her name.

"Ashe?"

Her eyes darted up to Azelas. He rarely used her nickname—usually only when his concern rose past normalcy.

"Sorry," she replied, numbly willing her feet to move.

They all stared after her as she walked dazedly down the corridor, none thinking to follow until Azelas pursued her. She had missed out on the better half of their conversation, too distracted by the stone's call to pay any attention, staring at it for nearly five minutes without a word. Azelas had attempted to rouse her with three other titles before resorting to "Ashe."

The doorway to the final chamber required two keys. One, the princess gathered from the ancient inscriptions on the door, she already had—it had in fact been the first key she recovered. The other, though, posed something of a challenge, as her knowledge of the old alphabet did not stretch far enough to read it fluently, and much of the carving had been marred by dust and mold over the ages, obscuring what little she could read.

She interpreted it as instructing her to seek out another chamber within the hallway behind them that held the key, and they searched the long walls of it tirelessly for nearly an hour before Balthier happened upon a loose stone no more than two feet down from the great doors that they sought to open. Upon removal of the stone, they found the key sitting idly in the tiny alcove, and a sharp glare from Ashelia warned them about teasing her for her mistranslation—though Balthier made no attempts to muffle his laughter.

She inserted the keys into the massive stone lock simultaneously, and together they turned back the many granite gears that locked it in complex succession. The door split in two, and its halves parted a few feet, allowing the group passage, but before they ventured in, the princess stopped them, removing the keys from the lock. They then passed through, finding the room beyond completely devoid of treasures—indeed, all that dwelled within the musty walls was a tall pyramid of stairs in the center. At its peak sat a stone coffin, behind which stood a pedestal which held aloft a plain, fist-sized stone.

As they approached, the stone slab beneath their feet depressed a few inches under the burden of their weight, triggering the door to shut behind them abruptly. Ashelia turned toward the sound with a subtle smirk, holding up the keys.

"At least I read that part right," she said quietly.

Balthier rolled his eyes and stepped farther into the chamber, scanning its hollow expanse and turning to Ashe expectantly. "Forgive me for saying so, Princess, but it's awfully…empty."

"He was the Dynast King," she replied cattily. "He had everything could ever want."

"So where is it?" Balthier quipped.

She, too, approached the great staircase, looking to its height with wonder. "His first daughter settled in the east," she explained, "his second daughter settled in the west, and here in his tomb he kept the proof that he was their father. That's all he wanted."

Balthier crossed his arms and glowered at her. "…You're saying _this _is Raithwall's treasure?"

"Yes."

"We had a deal, Highness."

"Our deal was that I would take the Midlight Shard and you would take everything else."

And now he paused, studying her with an oddly optimistic expression of admiration before granting her a mischievous smile. "Hmmm, tricky…I like it."

She smirked proudly. "Did you really expect me to pay for the services of a couple of high-flying lowlifes?"

"Well, I suppose you learn something new everyday," he mused. "So tell me, Princess…how do you plan on getting home?"

At that moment, a great rumble shook the walls, sending clouds of dust puffing out of the tomb's crevices.

"What was that?" Penelo asked quietly.

"The sandstorm, perhaps?" Azelas suggested.

"More like a ship," added Balthier.

"They followed us?" asked Basch.

"Fran's up there," Vaan replied. "She'd warn us."

"There's too much Mist here," said Balthier. "She'd be stranded."

"What?" asked Ashe.

He shot her a dirty look and seized the keys from her hand. "Get your rock. I'm going back."

Ashelia wrinkled her nose in disgust as he walked away, then turned to the pedestal above and ascended the steps, though not as speedily as she would have liked, for the stone had grown slick with moss and condensation. When she at last reached the top, she carefully edged her way around the coffin that held her ancestral remains, taking note of the ornate carvings that covered it on all sides.

She could decipher several words, most pertaining to Raithwall's achievements in life, proclaiming a servant of the ancient gods, trusted with their peace-giving powers. The large image the adorned the top panel of the box depicted the king in the height of his power, standing before his bowing people with a sword in one hand and a glowing gem in the other. His daughters flanked him, each holding a stone of their own.

Turning her eyes from the coffin to the pillar on which the Midlight Shard sat, Ashe suddenly paused in wonder, for a faint flicker of light disrupted the air, and the Mist before her quivered under the perceived weight of her reflection. But then the image diluted, fading briefly and reforming with deft weakness into the semblance of her dead husband. With a gasp, she lurched backward, falling against the edge of the coffin and disrupting the thick veil of dust that blanketed it. The motion quickly scattered the vision, though she knew she had seen Rasler there, clear as day.

Below her, the others called her name, and she looked to them uncertainly, her mind momentarily dazed. And then her eyes caught sight of a faint carving behind the inscriptions on the stone covering of Raithwall's resting place—a more subtle addition to the deep-cloven details of the imagery, previously obscured by the dust. Shadowy eyes hovered behind the royals, deft figures masked by the hatched lines carved into the background, and she briefly wondered if these were not the many gods of old, for in the youth of humanity, there had been pantheons of such beings believe to rule over fate and choice.

But if Balthier had been correct, she had no time to consider such things, and thus she turned back to the Midlight Shard, reaching through the gathering Mist and taking hold of it. In spite of the dank chill that penetrated the rest of the underground tomb, the stone emanated a gentle heat that warmed her hand and sent a shiver over her, mind and body. Lifting the rock from its perch, she suddenly felt the resurgence of hope—the prospect of winning freedom for her people.

The trek out of the tomb proved much shorter than the first trip. All of the doors now stood unlocked and wide open—and many of the hidden passageways were easily bypassed, as they had only served to house keys used on the main doors. The group made it out of the structure in under twenty minutes, but out in the desert sun, the entire Eighth Fleet awaited them, having clearly caught on to the Mist illusion that protected the tomb. Several dozen armed Archadian soldiers greeted them at the entrance and escorted them aboard the _Leviathan_ once more, where Ghis awaited with arrogance evident even through his suit of Judiciary armor.

"Nice to have you back, Famran," he said to Balthier as the group was led onto the bridge. "Bergan's been looking for you."

"Cid, too, I hear," the pirate replied with a bitter smirk. "Who's offering the better bounty?"

Before he could respond, Penelo entered behind the rest of the prisoners, and the Judge cocked his head slightly downward to give her a foreboding steel glare. "Well now…" he growled. "I knew you were trouble."

"Oh, you're just a bitter old man…" she sneered weakly.

"Just be thankful Prince Lamont isn't here to see you in custody," he replied. "The emperor would surely have you killed for breaking his son's heart."

"Leave her alone," Ashe snapped.

Ghis paused, looking her over tiredly. "Ah, it is a tremendous honor to again be graced with your presence, Majesty," he told her with a frustrated but nevertheless egotistical sigh. "You left us with such great dispatch upon our last encounter that I must confess I had begun to worry that we may have given Your Highness some cause for offense."

"Such a heartfelt display of remorse," she sneered. "Now what is it that you want?"

"I want you to give me the nethicite."

"The nethicite?"

Penelo tightly gripped the stone Monty had given her, holding it behind her back and shaking her head frantically. "No!"

Turning a sour glare on her once more, Ghis growled out his dissatisfaction: "Do not flatter His Little Highness so—that is a base imitation." And then, speaking to the group as a whole: "We seek Raithwall's legacy—the ancient relics of the Dynast King: deifacted nethicite. Did you not tell them, Captain Vossler?"

"Majesty," Azelas said softly, "he speaks of the Midlight Shard—that is the nethicite."

"You…" She jerked away from him, leveling on him a piercing glare of betrayal that caused him to step back as well. "…You're working for them!?"

"No!" he defended. "Not _for_ them—_with_ them. It's for the greater good."

Basch stepped to the princess's side. "Are you mad, Azelas!?"

"If we are to save Dalmasca, we must accept the truth," Azelas replied bitterly. "I will fight this profitless battle no more!"

"The captain has struck a wise bargain," Ghis added. "In return for the Midlight Shard, the Empire will permit Lady Ashelia to reclaim her throne, and the Kingdom of Dalmasca will be restored."

Ashe grit her teeth. "Dalmasca would be 'restored' in the same way that Bhujerba remains 'sovereign!'"

"Princess…" Azelas gently intervened.

"Shut it, Azelas!" she snapped. "Haven't you said enough already!?"

"Honestly," Ghis replied, carefully withholding his smile beneath the steel that shielded him, "such a harsh tone is unbecoming of royalty. Just think on it. An entire kingdom for a stone; you must admit, it's more than a fair exchange."

Balthier glowered at him. "And when all is said and done, your master will have another pet."

"You're one to talk," Ghis scoffed. "Fetching rocks for the highest bidder. I understand you didn't even get fair payment for this one."

"You really are just a bitter old man, aren't you?" Balthier bit back. "You'd sooner kill Gramis than do any more tricks for him. Do you even know what nethicite is capable of? What _Cid_ is capable of?"

Ghis considered this a moment, holding eye contact with the pirate for a few intense seconds before turning back to Ashe. "Lady Ashelia," he said, suddenly calm once more, "let us take this poor wretch for the people of Dalmasca. Your Majesty wallows in indecision on peril of their heads…" He drew his sword and swiftly set it at Balthier's throat. "And his shall be the first to fall."

The pirate didn't so much as flinch. "Well, at least your sword is to the point."

Ashe felt a strange flop in her stomach. The ever-present knot hadn't untied, and the butterflies hadn't awoken, but there was something there—something that jumped for the first time in two years. Her eyes met Balthier's fleetingly, and she held out the Midlight Shard, an eerie look of hypnotism on her face. Pleased to have his prize offered up so easily, Ghis took the stone and lowered the sword.

"Ashe!" Balthier growled.

"Shut up!" she lashed back.

Ghis stared lustfully at the nethicite, a light in his eyes vaguely shining—visible even beyond the helmet—but then seeming to dim as though a mighty shadow had overcome it. "Captain Vossler," he said, not bothering to look away from the treasure, "take them to the _Shiva_. They should have leave to return to Rabanastre soon."

Withholding a heavy sigh, Azelas and a small troop of Archadian soldiers led the group back into the winding halls of the _Leviathan_, and Ghis at last broke away from his fascination with the stone and handed it to an engineer.

"I want you to assess its power."

"Forgive me, sir," the man replied, "but did our orders not specify that we were to return the stone for testing?"

"I will not chance returning with a stone that is yet unproven," Ghis snapped, prompting the engineer to jump into action.

The equipment aboard the _Leviathan_ proved limited, so the mechanics opted to use the ship's drive to make their assessment. They explained to Ghis that once the stone was connected, the reaction should be easily measured, but he replied with all haughtiness that methods did not interest him—only results. Luckily for them, the results proved more than pleasing, for the rates of energy detected in the stone surpassed the rates found in all of the magicite utilized by the fleet as a whole—and the count still climbed.

The surge of power that overcame Ghis in that moment almost rivaled that of the stone, for, by having at last found true deifacted nethicite, he had attained the means of taking Archadia back from the ailing emperor and assisting Vayne in putting a victorious end to the long, bitter war that had plagued Ivalice for so long. At long last, Archadia would take hold of the world and claim it as her own.

"Something's wrong!"

His thoughts halted abruptly as he turned to the group of soldiers and engineers gathered around the engine's main drive.

"What!?" he growled. "What is it!?"

The soldiers scrambled amid the machinery, trying desperately to remove the Midlight Shard and salvage what they could of the _Leviathan's_ engine. The deifacted nethicite had begun to suck the energy out of the artificial nethicite that powered the ship, as well as the magicite that served as its backup generator. The fuel stagnated, and before long the lights began to flicker as the Midlight Shard sought other sources of energy.

"Engine power is falling rapidly!" one of the soldiers reported. "It's…negative! Impossible! We cannot maintain hover!"

"Damn it, what's happened!?" Ghis demanded.

"The nethicite is draining the ship's power!" another soldier replied.

"Disengage it at once!"

"We're trying! It's no good!"

One of the engineers spoke up amid the panic: "She'll reach critical in three hundred!"

Ghis racked his brain, but could come up with no solution. A soldier behind him reported cascade failure, and while the lights finally stabilized, a cloud of Mist began to penetrate the walls, slowly filling the bridge. Having found no more energy to draw upon, the Midlight Shard had begun to release its own.

The leisurely pace of the Mist kept it from spreading immediately to the _Leviathan's_ hangar, where Ashelia and her cortege had been taken to be loaded aboard an Atomos and ferried to the _Shiva_, but they had their own problems to handle.

The princess found herself walking tight at Basch's side—not just next to him, but _against_ him. She didn't know why, either. What logic was there in clinging to one traitor while angry with another? She briefly considered slowing her steps to fall in line with Vaan and Penelo—true Dalmascans—but hesitated when struck by the realization that they were reliant on her, their princess, far more than she had to be reliant on them. Fran appeared to be quite irritated, holding her head dismally as she walked, and Balthier—she couldn't go near him; not after the flutter of emotion he had just stirred in her. She couldn't trust someone with that ability.

It seemed, however, that Balthier held little trust in her as well, for, even surrounded by several soldiers, he berated her weakness without sympathy, and even ventured to insult Ghis. The soldiers appeared to be losing their patience, and Azelas clearly only tolerated it for the sake of keeping peace with those who had been so generous in their offer to restore Dalmasca.

"I can't believe you just handed it over to that bastard!" Balthier said to the princess.

"You'd rather I'd let him kill you!?" she growled back.

"Better me than you!"

"Since when are you so caring?"

He shook his head. "Nethicite is powerful enough on its own; deifacted nethicite could take out a whole city and then some. Ghis is going to overthrow the emperor."

Now Azelas stepped in: "Don't be ridiculous! He's sworn to protect the emperor!"

"Oh, like you've sworn to protect Dalmasca?" Balthier asked.

Ashe shot the pirate a venomous glare. "Shut up, pirate!"

"Princess," Azelas replied, "he has a point."

"You shut up, too, traitor!"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "There's that childish streak again…" And suddenly he noticed Fran staggering at his side, gripping her hair desperately and squeezing her eyes shut as though in pain. "…Fran?" he asked.

"Such heat…" she replied dizzily. "…The Mist is burning…"

Balthier stopped, prompting the soldiers escorting the group to pause as well, ill at ease with such a display. Fran bent slightly at the waist, hunched over despairingly, and Balthier took her hands in his and lowered slightly in an attempt to meet her eyes. "Shhh…How bad is it?"

She shook her head. "…I don't know…Bad…"

"Come on, Franny…"

"My God," said Ashe, ferociousness giving way to genuine concern. "What's wrong?"

Before either pirate could answer, a soldier approached, sword drawn in a show of authority. "Alright, lovebirds, break it up."

"We have to get her out of here," Balthier replied, more to the soldier than the princess.

"Oh, quit tryin' to be a hero for your lady," he went on. "You'll all go to the same dungeon."

"She's not my _lady_," the pirate groaned, negotiating his irons to allow him to place his arms around Fran's shoulders. "She's a _Viera_, and she can't handle this."

"Huh?" The small, curious gasp came from Penelo, who quickly drew their attention due to the glowing manufactured nethicite she held in her shackled hands.

Balthier paused momentarily, eyes wide and fixed on the sight. "Uh oh…"

The soldier pulled him to his feet while another approached Fran. "You! Stand!"

Fran remained crouched on the floor trembling, eyes shut tightly and holding her head in agony, shaking it as though attempting to free herself of some burdening presence within it. As the guard leaned down to force her up, she knocked him back—at least six feet. The other soldiers released their prisoners in a panic, running to restrain the enraged Viera, but she quickly broke through the chains binding her wrists and met them in furious combat. None expected the slight woman's strength to be what it was, but she threw punches with unheard of force, taking out guards with all four limbs and leaping away from their counter attacks with hare-like agility and speed.

"It's absorbing more Mist," Balthier calmly explained to Penelo.

As chaos quickly descended on the room, Penelo glanced about anxiously. "But I don't see any…Oh." As if on cue, Mist began to seep into sight, billowing at their feet and reflecting reversed visions of the events taking place around the room, thereby making it difficult to tell just how close Fran's onslaught came to their position.

"Well," Balthier groaned, "so much for Plan A."

Fran continued beating back the soldiers with inhuman strength, though she appeared to be unusually aggravated—in pain, even. Though at least a dozen guards came at her with swords drawn, the speed of her attacks rendered them useless. One came close to landing a killing blow, but Fran managed to bend his blade with a single kick.

"What's wrong with her?" Basch asked Balthier.

"Mist overdose," he explained, picking the locks of each prisoner's bindings. "Ghis is releasing the Midlight Shard."

"What do you mean 'releasing' it?" Ashelia pressed.

"It's spent thousands of years absorbing Mist, right?" Balthier replied. "He's releasing it."

"So…"

"Either he's committing suicide, or he has no bloody idea what's going on."

"I like Fran's idea," said Vaan. "Let's get out of here!"

"Right," Balthier agreed. "Penelo, give me the nethicite."

She recoiled, clutching the stone protectively in both hands. "No way!"

"I'll give it back!" the pirate insisted. "You know I don't want the damn thing."

"What're you going to do with it?"

"Help Fran."

"How?"

"Keep it close to her. It'll absorb the Mist before she does. Hopefully."

"Mm…" Her eyes darted between him and the stone, but the memory of their first escape from the _Leviathan_ stuck in her head, and she finally gave in. "Alright…but you better take good care of it."

He took it as the Mist thickened between them. "Monty would kill me otherwise," he said with a smirk. "Go help your worthless brother get us a ship."

"Hey!" Vaan exclaimed.

"Okay," Penelo replied, taking his hand and disappearing into the shimmering fog.

Balthier turned to address Basch and the princess only to find them missing, but figured that if both were gone, they were likely together, and thus dropped the matter and began inching his way toward Fran. However, his assumption proved quite wrong, for Azelas had taken Ashelia by the arm while all backs were turned, and now struggled to force her to an Atomos.

"Princess," he begged, gripping her wrist as she attempted to fight him off, "please just listen…"

"I have listened enough!" she snapped. "I had faith in you Azelas—you above all others. How could you do this?"

She nearly freed herself, but he seized her opposite arm, stabilizing his hold on her.

"This is what we've been fighting for!" he insisted. "You'll have your throne back at last."

"_My_ throne?" she growled, thrashing against his grip. "I will not play puppet to Gramis! I will not shame myself like Ondore!"

"Vossler!" They both paused at the interruption, turning to see Basch behind them, sword drawn. "Let her go."

"You know this is for her own good," Azelas stated sternly.

"She's not a child anymore," said Basch. "She can make her own decisions."

Azelas drew his sword as well. "Do you want Dalmasca to end up like Landis?"

"Stop it!" Ashe cried.

"I don't want it to end up like Bhujerba," Basch countered.

"Bhujerba may be shamed," said Azelas, "but the marquis is still alive."

"Basch!" Ashe pleaded. "Don't hurt him!"

"I'm not the one to worry about," Azelas replied.

Before Ashelia could intervene, Azelas raised his blade and Basch met it, and her eyes widened at the sound of the clash like those of a cat interrupted while in the midst of a midnight hunt. Azelas had released her, and yet she felt more securely entrapped than ever as she watched her two dearest knights viciously swing steel at each other. She had seen her country torn apart, and now what little she had left threatened to succumb to the same fate.

Basch and Azelas appeared oblivious to her emotions and perhaps too worried about her physical presence, less concerned with parrying each other's blows than with forcing each other to lose ground near her. Fearing the potential ends of the fight if she did not end it for them, Ashe edged closer, but could voice no words amid the violence of their struggle and the roar of the bedlam that surrounded them.

Before long, another squadron of soldiers entered, but they paid no heed to the minor battle between bodyguards, too distracted with Fran's increasingly brutal attacks. Balthier struggled to get close enough to Fran to block off the Mist, but her violent outbursts made this nearly impossible. Vaan and Penelo had found no luck in starting up any of the Atomos crafts in the hangar, but dared not get near enough to Balthier to ask for assistance. Ashelia watched helplessly as her knights brawled, unable to break them up and unsure of whether or not she wished either one victory. Her lips parted, searching for words, but found none, and her eyes seemed to expand as the moments passed, revealing more and more the extent of her horror.

Fortunately, the fight did not last long, as Basch managed to floor Azelas with equine swiftness. While he could not disarm him, he struck faster from above than Azelas could from below, landing the finishing blow with such speed that Ashe briefly squeezed her eyes shut before remembering the depth of the friendship the two knights had shared. The blade fell at Azelas's throat, but halted mere inches away, hanging in place while Basch turned to Ashelia hesitantly. She opened her eyes and met his briefly, and then approached.

"Come on," she said sternly.

"What?" Azelas asked as Basch backed off.

"Come on!" she repeated, taking his hand. "We're leaving."

He resisted her pull with wide, confused eyes. "We?"

She knelt on one knee beside him and gripped his arm, but still could not drag him to his feet. "Azelas, I don't have time for this!"

"Basch is framed and you hate him, but I'm guilty and you forgive me in a matter of minutes?"

A grudging yank got him to his knees, but she could move him no farther. "I don't hate Basch. Now come on!"

"Highness, look on what my haste has wrought." In resisting her desperate tugs, he accidentally threw her off balance so that she fell to her knees before him. "I can serve you no longer," he insisted.

"No! You're coming!" With little thought, she fell forward against him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "…You're coming with us."

"Ashe…" he whispered, apprehensively squeezing her. "…I'm tired. I just can't do this anymore."

She leaned back, gazing at him with utter disbelief, but she barely managed to begin a protest when she felt his hand on hers. Looking down, she bit her lip babyishly as he laid the hilt of his sword in her hand—the sword he had been knighted with nearly twenty years ago.

"I taught you to fight for yourself," he told her. "Now go do it."

Basch gently touched her shoulder upon noticing the wet glisten of her eyes, but she did not look away from Azelas. "…Princess."

Taking in a breath to suppress a rather obvious sob, she shook off his hand and stood, then ran for the Atomos without a word.

Basch released a sigh, then turned back to Azelas, who remained kneeling before him in shame. Unable to look Basch in the eyes, he turned his face down and ran his hands through his hair despairingly.

"All I have done…" he whispered, feeling his own eyes dampen. "I've ever thought of Dalmasca first."

"I know," said Basch. "I would never gainsay your loyalty."

"Keep her well."

He nodded. "Goodbye."

In the Atomos, Vaan and Penelo tended to the ailing Fran, while Ashelia sat beside Balthier, mournfully looking over the sword laid across her lap, tracing the lettering on the blade with her fingers, just as she had done so many times as a child. Balthier kept himself busy with trying to get the craft in the air, though he didn't seem to be having much luck.

"Basch!" he exclaimed as the captain entered. "Get your ass in here!"

He promptly obeyed. "What is it?"

"Here. Take the reins." Balthier stood and shoved Basch into the pilot's seat. "The Mist is shorting us out. I've got to hotwire it."

"But I've never—"

"Look." He began demonstrating the dead controls. "Right, left, up, down, fast, slow…Don't worry; it's easy. Soon as the power goes on, get us the hell out of here."

"Balthier—"

It was no use. Balthier had already disappeared into the cabin, and quickly made his way to the cramped engine room beyond, finding the magicite within it sparking as Mist choked the wires bound to it. It appeared that the Midlight Shard had not absorbed the power of the stone, as it had begun to release its pent-up Mist before its reach stretched to the hangar, but the combined power of the magicite and the Mist now overloaded the circuitry, sending sparks flying about the engine, dangerously close to the back-up fuel line.

Finding nothing with which to protect his hands from electrical burns, Balthier resorted to giving the magicite a firm kick, disengaging it and sending it flying against the wall behind him. The engine spurred, and the Atomos lurched, and Basch haphazardly steered them out of the hangar and away from the fleet. Unfortunately, the cloud of Mist remained with the _Leviathan_, and the engine's empty power socket quickly ran out of energy as the small chamber cleared of Mist. Balthier grabbed the magicite, cursing as he discovered the hard way that it had not yet thoroughly cooled, and shoved it back in place, alternating hands as the pain grew.

The Atomos regained its hover, and he rubbed his palms together, blowing on them carefully, relieved to see that no serious damage had been done, but he soon realized that he'd left a considerably inexperienced pilot at the controls and returned to the cockpit with due haste.

"I am this close to getting us all killed," Basch warned with the appropriate gesture.

"Right. Sorry," said Balthier, taking his place and quickly getting the small craft back under control. "This might get a little dicey…"

Fran raised her head dismally, looking out the window with swooning eyes. "The Mist…it manifests now."

"Is that what you call this!?" Vaan replied.

As the ship zipped crisply out of the fleet's midst, the _Leviathan_ passed from the view of the cockpit window, and Ashe rushed to the back of the Atomos to see, with Basch quietly following her. From the back window, the entire fleet appeared quite clear, and though only a small cloud of Mist blocked the back of the flagship, she somehow knew it would be more than enough.

All too quickly, a white light surged from the _Leviathan_, flashing yellow, then white once more, and finally an eerie purple-black, like oil on water or soot on snow—murky and unnatural. Very little sound seemed to accompany the burst, though the princess wondered if she had in fact just drowned it out with her pounding pulse. The Atomos had made it clear of the blast with a bit of room to spare, but as the light died down and the smoke cleared, the devastation that had been wrought on the Eighth Fleet became painfully evident. Not a scrap of the _Leviathan_ remained, and what pieces of the lesser ships had survived fell from the sky, scorched and flaming. A wave of aftershock hit the Atomos, but it did no damage, and Ashe hardly felt it, far too lost in thought. Her right hand gripped the hilt of the sword until her knuckles whitened, and her left absently reached for Basch, first linking her arm around his, then finding and grasping his hand with more strength than he would have thought possible for a woman of so slight a stature.

"Are we clear?" Balthier asked.

"Seems so," said Basch. "Everybody in one piece?"

"…Everybody but Azelas," Ashe all but whispered in return.

Unsure of what to say, he squeezed her hand a bit—which he hadn't dared to do when she first took hold of his—but this only brought her back to her senses, causing her to release her hold on him and turn away awkwardly.

"…Penelo…" Fran wearily held the nethicite out to the girl. "…Thank you."

"Uhh…any time," she replied, taking it with uncomfortable relief.

Fran headed for the back room, a distinct lag in her steps. "I'm…going to lie down…"

Debris scattered across the whitened sand below, occasionally reflecting the desert sun, but one particularly bright flash glimmered at them repeatedly, emitting an ethereal light that alternated colors as it struggled to shine.

"What's that?" Penelo asked, pointing it out.

They all studied the light, noting that the scraps of the fleet around it had been reduced to only tiny remnants—no chunks, no recognizable pieces, just bits of metal and plumes of smoke. The object that glowed at them proved too small to be clearly discerned, even in comparison to the debris that surrounded it, but they each came to the same conclusion, which Ashe quietly voiced:

"…I think it's the Midlight Shard."

"Don't tell me you want to go back for it…" Balthier groaned.

"I still need proof of my identity," she bit back.

He rolled his eyes, eager to return to his own ship, but not about to leave a chunk of nethicite lying around for Imperial search and rescue teams to find. "Fine."


	14. Chapter 13

I can't believe I've been at this a whole year now. I really can't believe I've managed to keep up with monthly updates for a whole year. I know it's slow going, but with school, work, dance, and homework all coming before this, I like to think that I'm making pretty good progress. We'll see how much longer I can keep it up :)

_XIII._

With the Dreadnought _Leviathan_ sunk, and the Eighth Fleet of the Archadian Imperial army effectively lost, the people of Archadia, though still unaware of their enemy princess's resurfacing, slowly but surely began to question their place in the war. The emperor had addressed them with words of assurance, claiming Rozarria no threat against his domain, not even without the might of the Eighth, but these words did not satisfy the Imperial Senate. Without sympathy, they hounded the emperor for answers and solutions, reminding him of Rozarria's ever looming ferocity and Ashelia's thirst for power. They insisted Vayne could not handle such matters. They demanded Gramis take his country's future into serious consideration.

Thus the emperor called them to assembly so that they might be dealt with conclusively, though not all went as he had hoped. The Senators laid out their complaints all afternoon, one after the other in tiring succession, heedless of their own finicky rudeness, drawing the session out until the sun began to fall, and then at last returning to the issue that had sparked their persistent concern in the first place:

"The Rozarrian Empire assembles a vast host under guise of martial exercises," Chairman Gregoroth stated coldly. "It is our belief they wait for the proper pretext…the sooner to make their strike against Archadia."

"The loss of the _Leviathan_ and her fleet at such a time comes as a most grievous blow," another Senator added.

"Were Rozarria to invade," the chairman went on, "the battle would be hard-fought—and had Lord Vayne not deployed the fleet so capriciously, we would not now find ourselves in such perilous circumstance."

Gramis withheld a bitter sigh. "Vayne shall be made to answer for his actions, if it is the will of the Senate."

"Excellency," one of the lesser Senators said with placid satisfaction, "though he be your son, justice must be served."

"A convenient thing, justice," said the emperor. "It seems to greatly favor my dear little boy as of late."

"A most lamentable situation for us all," another Senator replied.

"Oh?" Gregoroth almost smiled. "For Lord Vayne, perhaps, yet surely Master Lamont will make for a fine emperor."

"That is out of the question," said Gramis.

"Your Highness," the chairman maintained, "the order of inheritance as it stands now is only legitimate in cases in which the nearest blood relative has not yet reached the age of reason; it is meant to preserve innocence, not to shelter a preferential son. Master Lamont has seen his first decade as blissfully as any child—perhaps you underestimate the extent of his precociousness…"

"Vayne is already wary of his position," Gramis insisted. "I will not incite such rivalry."

Another Senator spoke up: "Are you really so selfish as to consider your family before your country?"

He shook his head. "You do not know my sons as I do. Monty would not willingly usurp Vayne's power…and even with your guidance, his ability to rule a country is still questionable—he is yet young."

"But he will not remain young forever," the Senator pressed. "Already he busies himself unraveling Doctor Cid's tangled skein; the boy knows more of this mysterious nethicite than all here combined. Master Lamont has found his role to play, and pursues it with great enthusiasm."

"Ah, yes," Gramis replied. "And who would set him at such tasks?"

"What matter?" asked Gregoroth. "Lord Vayne himself once saw his elder brothers brought to justice, did he not? At Your Excellency's behest, as I recall."

Much to the emperor's relief, a fit of coughing claimed his voice at that moment, allowing him time to think out his response.

Gramis's elder sons had been men of good faith and strong virtue—so naturally, they sought to overthrow him. Both had expressed disappointment in his treatment of other countries, but when their plot was uncovered, the emperor had nevertheless been taken off-guard. He could not risk involving the Judges or his troops—they could not be trusted. Vayne was the only logical choice. His loyalty was unwavering by necessity; he was stuck with his family, and would do anything for his father's approval. Though the older two were only a year apart, a five-year gap stood between them and Vayne—it seemed only natural that he would have an inferiority complex.

But sending Vayne to murder his brothers remained Gramis's greatest regret. Vayne had never fully recovered. He was only fifteen at the time, after all. When his mother found out, she stabbed herself through the heart right in front of him. Right in front of them both. They didn't speak for six months afterwards—not even at the funeral—and Vayne had never been comfortable around his stepmother, who was little more than a year his senior, and the daughter of the deceased Judge Ferrinas, his close friend and bodyguard growing up. He addressed her as _ma'am_, and she addressed him as _sir_. It was awkward at best.

It wasn't until a week after Lamont's birth that Vayne began to exhibit signs of humanity again. The empress died in labor, and Vayne had no interest in his new half-brother, but the night of the burial, something seemed to snap. Gramis always felt that Vayne had witnessed his sorrow and realized that he loved his second wife more than his first (whom he had only married through arrangement), and thus sought to punish him by destroying all that he had left of her—Monty. He left the ceremony and returned to the palace, then went straight to the nursery and ordered Drace to leave him with his brother.

Gramis never knew what exactly Vayne's intentions were that night—to honestly spend some time with Lamont, or to smother him, or to throw him out the window and jump out after—but he had never actually seen his baby brother until then, and thus had no way of anticipating his own reaction. When Gramis arrived, he found Vayne sitting on the floor in the corner, holding Monty tenderly in front of him, just looking into his eyes. Monty, in turn, appeared quite content, despite being woken in the middle of the night, and gazed back at Vayne with wonderment.

"What's his name?" Vayne had asked, not bothering to look up at his father.

"…He doesn't have one yet," Gramis had said hesitantly in reply.

"Can we call him Ferrinas? After his grandfather? No. Lamont—that was his real name, wasn't it?"

The oddity of the situation melted in hindsight. For a time, Gramis had trusted Vayne with Monty—had thought not of competition or past deeds or the throne both princes cared so dearly for. Vayne held his brother on a pedestal, and—just as the Senate insisted—he would not stand for their father to do the same while he remained nothing more than "the _first_ empress's son." Gramis knew all too well that even though he was the boy's father, Monty belonged exclusively to Vayne, and Vayne would do whatever he saw fit with him if no interference was provided. With this illness upon him, the emperor had no choice but to cut Monty's childhood short.

"If you'll forgive my frankness, My Lord," one of the Senators said graciously, "your health fails you ever rapidly. We know as well as you do that Lord Vayne will not stand idly by while the younger prince takes the throne—we do not seek to condemn one who is not yet able to effectively defend himself."

Another Senator stepped in, equally polite. "Bear in mind that it is also no secret that you favor the child. Either you must deal with the elder, or the elder will deal with the younger."

Gramis shook his head. "Vayne loves his brother…" he sighed weakly.

"Fraternity has not stayed his hand in the past."

"We know the difficulty of such a decision," said the chairman, "but you may put yourself at ease, Lord Gramis. Regardless of which emperor we serve, so long as the Senate watches over her, Archadia's well-being will ever be ensured."

The emperor faintly hung his head, not weighing the decision, but instead justifying it. Vayne was a threat. Monty would understand. There was a country and a war to consider. And at heart he knew that his "little boy" was not so little anymore. "I thank you for your understanding of my indecision," he said at length, "but I now find it not as difficult as it at first appeared. By your will, I shall bid my sons return to Archades. Lamont shall assume the throne while I yet live to advise him, and Vayne will accept it or perish."


	15. Chapter 14

_XIV._

As word of the events that brought down the Eighth Fleet sounded throughout the Empire, the various counter-Imperial forces scattered throughout Ivalice began to slowly fade away. Some speculated that Gramis had cracked down on them with all due severity in his rage over the defeat, but others insisted that they had vanished underground intentionally to coax the Empire into lowering its guard so that they might band together in unified resistance.

Lady Ashelia returned to Rabanastre, but had not made known her presence in either the form of a general or a princess. Rather, she remained content with keeping both her own whereabouts and those of the Midlight Shard concealed. Had she chosen then to go before her people, the marquis's error in announcing her suicide would be known—to the great detriment of his rumored efforts to assemble an effective Resistance force. In such circumstance as the princess now found herself, even were she to proclaim Dalmasca restored, it would serve only to invite the Empire's wrath. Though Archadia had lost a large portion of its power, it remained—as ever—a military power with which to be reckoned.

Thus she kept herself in hiding for two days, pondering her next move—calculating her risks. The pirates had deemed their duty done and their payment (or lack thereof) grudgingly fair, and had therefore given no protest to Ashelia's farewell upon reaching Rabanastre's aerodome. Vaan and Penelo had gone with her, though she had insisted that she did not wish them to risk their lives on her behalf—too many had already made such commitments. But they would not be discouraged—Vaan in particular—and after discussing the position the country now sat in and the difficulty which she would face upon revealing herself to the Resistance, the two youngsters had volunteered to set out the next day in search of any form of assistance for their princess.

Basch, however, remained at her side, aware that she hated the confinement of the underground passageways in which they took refuge, and unwilling to leave her alone with her sorrow, for he could see clearly that the pain of Azelas's death still lingered in her heart.

"Aren't you going with them?" she had asked coldly as Vaan and Penelo bounded away.

"No," he replied.

And she had turned her eyes from the closing door and focused them on a wall with a burdensome sigh. "How many times must I tell you, Captain? I don't need a babysitter."

"You don't _want_ a babysitter."

Her head drooped a bit. "…Yes, I do."

"…He deserves to rest with honor," Basch said gently. "No one has to know."

"It's not fair."

"No part of this has been. Very little is in our control, but we have to do what we can."

"I know."

She sat quietly, very still, hands clasped around the nethicite, eyes gazing sorrowfully downward. Azelas's sword lay across a table in the corner, painfully alone. For two years, he had protected her; it now seemed nothing more than a tragic waste, a seemingly permanent loss of both the comfortingly normal and the extraordinarily trusted aspects of her life. Basch kept his distance, as had Vaan and Penelo earlier, and even the pirates on the flight back to Rabanastre, but it didn't look as if the princess was going to show any more emotion than she already had. The pathetic fact of the matter was that Basch could think of nothing to say that might brighten her spirits. A particular thought had pressed on his mind since witnessing the fall of the _Leviathan_, and he knew she would consider it an urgent matter, but he feared now may be the worst of times to bring it up.

He had accompanied Prince Rasler to the battle of Nabudis—the capital of old Nabradia—and had fought at his side all night. Rasler had taken an arrow near his heart and began bleeding heavily, and though he fought against Basch to leave him on the battlefield, the knight had managed to drag him away from the capital, to the hills where the healing camp had settled. However, as they left, another division of Imperials entered the city, dropped off by the Fourth Fleet, and before long there came a mighty explosion—friend and foe died alike, and the medics packed up quickly and fled. Basch and Rasler managed to remain undetected by the many troops that the air brigade dropped down in the aftermath, but their last hope had been destroyed.

Basch knew that the princess would not welcome the topic, but his suspicions granted him no sleep, and he feared for the worst if Archadia indeed possessed such power, so he at last decided that it would be better to tell of the event sooner than later. After a long hour of consideration, he half-heartedly began:

"…Princess?"

"…This isn't going to be good, is it?" she said quietly, knowing his tone far too well.

He shook his head. "Sorry."

"On with it then."

"After Rasler—" He set his jaw briefly, condemning his deficient tact. "I tried to take him to the medics. We were barely half a mile away, and the entire city—I don't know. It just lit up. At the time, I just assumed the paling had given out and a ship crashed down, but…it had to have been nethicite."

Ashelia's eyes focused on him with doubtful intensity, but some part of her—some miserable, horrified part of her—appeared to grudgingly agree with him. "…The Dawn Shard?"

"I wish I knew for certain," he said.

"But…" She looked remorsefully at the nethicite in her frail fingers, searching for the proper words and coming up short. Standing and taking a few contemplative steps toward the center of the room, she clutched the stone in both hands, resisting the urge to examine it once more. "I don't understand," she went on. "Destructive power of such force…Why would Raithwall leave us such a thing?"

"Protection?" Basch suggested. "I've been wondering just that."

"What could we possibly need that kind of protection from?" she pressed. "What enemy could earn such punishment?"

At this the Landisian broke eye contact, clearly struggling to restrain his opinions on the matter, and the princess, too, averted her gaze, dropping the stone to her side in one hand.

"…Maybe he was right," she said. "We should have just given it to them—rid Dalmasca of this burden."

Basch blinked slowly—painfully—and answered her in as calm a tone as he could manage: "I can't condone what I've seen it do, but still I'd rather have it used _by_ Dalmasca than _against_ it."

"If Archadia continues its war, this could be our only chance…" Her voice sounded forlorn—child-like. She hated that, but for some reason unbeknownst to her, it couldn't be helped.

"It may not come to that," he added. "They went to great lengths to steal a single piece of nethicite from Dalmasca—they must be desperate."

She nodded slowly, trying to put the pieces together. "The Resistance…That's why they've kept it a secret for so long. They'll make an example of us the first chance we give them."

"Once the rest of the world sees what they're capable of…"

He trailed off, not wanting to cement such a certainty with words, and she shifted her weight anxiously, clutching the stone and speaking with staunch resolve:

"This_ is_ our protection—it must be."

Basch shook his head. "Do you really want that on your conscience?"

And at this the princess hesitated, for although she felt Archadia more than deserving of complete annihilation for all of its sins, it occurred to her then that her own country had suffered such a total and absolute defeat—could she fight with the same ruthlessness that her enemy wielded so easily against her? Her uncle's sentiment on the matter came to mind, and while it pained her to let him down, if even by considering the very action he had warned her against, she felt much deeper the sting of disappointing Basch. Indeed, she found this a rather odd feeling; here stood a man who had lost everything to Archadia, and he did not even encourage her to strike back. She envied such restraint, but somehow found it foolish—though she admittedly did not know to what extent the war had affected him.

Basch spoke little of his life before Nabradia. She knew only from what Rasler had gathered that he had entered the Landisian army at an early age—the son of a general—and had wavered constantly in rank because of his talent for military skill and his penchant for mischief. He'd also married young—only nineteen—and had planned to remain a career soldier before Archadia's attack. He served two years in the Landisian resistance, helping to foster its alliance with Nabradia, and then served another three years as an officer of the Nabradian army before being promoted to Rasler's security. After two years of this, he was knighted by Ashelia's father, along with the rest of Rasler's cortege, and he served the prince and princess both for the next six years.

Ashe had always thought she knew all there was to know about Basch, but somehow she had come to assume that knowing him as a person sat equivalent with knowing his past. She had heard that Landisian culture valued the present—that the language didn't even acknowledge a past tense—but she had admittedly thought of Basch as Landisian only rarely. Perhaps there remained some piece of his old home within him, she wondered, that prevented him from speaking of his own experiences. Or perhaps it was just easier for him to forget. But still, she could come up with no polite way of questioning him about his brother, and feared that even if she could, he would not oblige.

On the other hand, he might understand her desire to know the man who killed her father—indeed, for the past two years, she had found closure in the assurance that she _did_ know him. But he did not hate his brother as she did, and she simply couldn't understand why. What existed in Basch that let him move on so calmly from the past? Why could she not learn it from him? This unfairness pained her to no end.

Somehow, though, the path set before her seemed clear. Dalmasca had withstood the tests of time—aiding her allies and laying to rest her foes, be it by words or by swords. Since words would not work, it now fell upon the last member of House Dalmasca to wield the nethicite as a blade—to avenge those who had died, and to see that the Empire at long last knew remorse.

She had no time to express or justify her resolve to Basch, however, for in that instant the doors to the tiny underground chamber flew open, and Vaan and Penelo bounded in, eager to report.

"Back so soon?" she asked.

"There wasn't a whole lot to do," Vaan explained.

"We tried our best," Penelo added.

Ashe subtly shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"Uhh…" Penelo appeared lost for words, and Vaan quickly stepped in:

"Well, there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

Basch and Ashe exchanged glances.

"Better make it the bad," Basch said.

"Man…I was afraid you'd say that." Vaan briefly hung his head before making fleeting eye-contact with the princess. "Apparently your uncle has, um…disappeared."

She blinked. "…Disappeared?"

"Yeah," he confirmed with a nod. "Took off right after you did—with pretty much the entire Bhujerban air brigade."

"Then at least the Empire hasn't claimed him," Ashelia sighed, wearily taking a seat and beginning to turn the nethicite over and over in her hands.

"All of Rabanastre's Resistance members have run off, too," said Penelo.

"We checked the sewers and everything," Vaan added. "Even Old Dalan's gone."

"…Perhaps you actually got to him," Basch suggested to the princess.

She shook her head. "Massing the troops…It's too soon. We can't take on the Empire like this."

"The marquis wouldn't rush into battle," said Basch. "We may yet be able to find him."

"In Rozarria, no doubt."

He sighed and turned to Vaan and Penelo once more. "You said there was good news?"

"Oh, right," Penelo replied with a smile. "Everyone knows about Monty now."

"What?" Ashe asked, suddenly losing her preoccupation with the stone.

"The emperor made a big announcement the day before yesterday," she explained. "There are parties everywhere. We were a little confused at first, but there's only one reason he'd tell people."

Ashe blinked slowly, the true meaning of the revelation settling at the front of her mind. "Vayne just lost his throne."

"But Monty's gonna be a good emperor," Vaan insisted. "You can talk to him, you know?"

"Not if Halim launches a sneak attack," Ashe replied, shaking her head and folding her arms.

"But they're really good friends," said Penelo. "Once Marquis Ondore realizes Monty's in charge, he'll call it all off."

The princess sighed. "Forgive my forwardness, but you two are far too optimistic. Lamont is the enemy now. Halim will attack while he's still young and weak. It's become nothing more than a race."

"What?" Penelo chirped weakly.

"If Vayne kills him," Basch explained, "Archadia moves forward. If Halim kills him, it moves back."

"But he's just a little kid…" Vaan whined.

"Gabranth will look after him," Basch assured them.

"It's a shame," Ashe agreed, "but there's nothing we can do for him now. We've got to focus on our own problems."

"What problems?" asked Vaan. "We've got the Midlight Shard. That thing can win the war for us, right?"

"I wish it were that simple," said Ashe. "I don't even know how to use it."

"You should talk to the Garif," Penelo suggested. "They come to the market in the summers. They know all about magicite, so maybe they can tell us about nethicite."

"The Garif?" the princess asked. "They don't use technology."

"But this isn't technology," Penelo insisted. "At least, I don't think it is."

"I think they use magicite for their religion," Vaan added. "They trade for it all the time—it's really important to them."

"It's worth a try," Basch admitted. "Learning _how_ to use the nethicite wouldn't necessarily mean that you _have_ to use it."

"I suppose you're right," said Ashe. "It's dangerous, but we can't let them have such an advantage over us." She stood, clutching the stone in both hands. "Besides, should we declare Dalmasca free without the means to defend ourselves, we wouldn't stand a chance. It would be a long walk, though. I don't know if we could survive risking it on foot."

"All of your pilots have left," Vaan replied, "and your friends in the customs office must've gone underground or something."

Penelo nodded. "Vayne has a tight hold on the aerodome, and the borders are a nightmare."

"Do we have any contacts?" asked Ashe.

Now she averted her eyes. "Just one."

"Don't tell me…"

"I'm sorry, Princess," said Vaan. "He's the only show in town. And he got into the aerodome, so he must be able to get out."

Ashelia stepped up to the table in the corner and deftly tapped her nails on the sword, gazing at her reflection and finding it impossible to ignore the twist in her stomach as it slowly crept up and tugged on her heart. Clenching her jaw, she turned her eyes to her wedding ring, yet she still found no distraction in it.

"Come on, Princess," Penelo coaxed. "He's not so bad."

"I know," she said. "But he makes me feel…"

"Feel what?" Penelo asked.

The princess's brow furrowed a little. That was it. He made her feel. "…Un…" She sighed. "…professional."

They found the honey-eyed pirate in question at the aerodome finishing up the latest coat of polish on the _Strahl_, as the sun and sand of Dalmasca's deserts made the need for it quite apparent. Francesca at first seemed to be missing, though she appeared at the top of the ship upon hearing their approaching footsteps.

"Hey!" Vaan called, bounding up to them with Penelo close behind. "Leaving already?"

"You didn't expect me to stay in this sandtrap, did you?" Balthier asked over his shoulder.

"Aw, I thought you liked us," Penelo cooed.

"Don't flatter yourself."

Ashe spoke up: "Only you get to do that, right?"

"Oh, great," he groaned, turning to face the group. "What do you want?"

"A ride." He gave her a glare, as though accusing her of being deliberately lewd, and she clarified with a biting tone: "On the _Strahl_."

He at first rolled his eyes at this, but then regarded her with an impressed smile and continued. "You sure you want to cast your lot back in with a couple of 'high-flying lowlifes?'"

"Vayne has the Resistance scattered," she explained. "You're the only one we can trust."

"Well," he replied with a laugh, "isn't this just the darkest day in the history of Ivalice? Where are you headed?"

"Jahara."

"Jahara?"

"Yes. We need to speak with the Garif."

"That's far beyond Ozmone Plain," he scoffed. "Not exactly close."

"I can pay you when I assume the throne," she huffed knowingly.

Once again, he smiled. "Straight to the point, aren't you? I like that. But the fact of the matter is the last time you promised me payment, it never quite materialized."

Folding her arms, she leveled her eyes on him and spoke in a chilling tone. "Collateral—is that what you want?"

"No," he said with a false expression of passing interest, "but for the time being it would suffice."

"How about the nethicite?"

"Ha! Why in the name of God would I want that?"

"Because it's the most valuable thing I have to offer?"

"Value is relative, Highness. Just because it's valuable doesn't mean it's important."

"I see…" Her gaze fell on the floor for a moment, then she slowly slid the thin silver band off her finger and held it out daintily.

He paused, trying to suppress his shock, and extended his hand, palm up, letting her drop it in rather than take it from her. "…Alright then," he said at last. "You've got yourself a ship. We can leave whenever you're ready."

"That would be now."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He wadded up the polish-stained towel and tossed it to Fran, then nodded toward the open entry hatch. "Hop on."

She did so with the faintest hint of a smirk, Basch close behind her, shooting the pirate a glare of warning. The kids tussled at the hatch, giggling as each fought to board before the other (Penelo won, of course), and Francesca hopped down from the heights of the ship and glowered at her partner with all due criticality.

"Just a little insurance," he told her in Vieran, quickly stuffing the ring in his pocket.

She blinked with clear disbelief and continued on into the ship, while he felt the frailty of the ring for a moment more before forcing his hand free and boarding.

The sheer discomforting silence of the situation reminded him with an odd sharpness of his mother's funeral—how the rain had washed away all the flowers and made mud of her grave, and his father, too drunk to be seen in public, had asked what the hell that had to do with anything. Balthier was sure that in their youth—before he arrived—they had understood each other better, or at least well enough that his father would recognize blossoms from the white garden she had so carefully tended for the empress; the jasmine that crept along the walls, the wisteria that loomed gracefully from the arched entrance, the daisies, the dogwoods, the lilies. They had adorned Lamont's mother's casket, and the little prince had insisted they be at last buried with their caretaker, for they withered with her in her last years. Monty and Balthier had watched in silence as the soil ran in black rivulets over the soggy petals.

But, as Balthier had always comforted himself, his father was drinking, and he only drank as a means of keeping himself from caring. So he _did_ care. But as soon as he sobered up, it was business as usual. He hoped the same would apply to the princess—clearly she had lost a dear part of herself, but she seemed the resilient type. Perhaps it was just the lingering effects of his Archadian upbringing, but he felt somehow responsible for her unhappiness, and wished only to make things right.

And then he realized that she perhaps had more in common with his father than he had thought. Upon entering the _Strahl's_ cockpit, he found her standing alone in the corner, turning the darksome chunk of nethicite over and over in her elegant hands, her eyes searching for some meaning—some salvation—in the stone's depths. He'd seen that same hope too many times before in his father's eyes, and suddenly regretted agreeing to the venture, for he knew that nethicite could bring the world no balance and certainly no peace.

"Oh, is that it?" he asked, taking his seat at the controls.

"What?" Ashe replied, raising her grey eyes in a brief glare before returning them to the stone.

"The nethicite," Balthier went on. "You're going to ask the Garif about it?"

"That's the plan."

"They're just going to tell you not to bother."

She turned her gaze on him once more, clearly not amused. "What makes you so sure?"

"It's already been used," he explained. "There's no Mist left in it."

"That doesn't mean it's useless."

"But it is. Why bother going all the way to Jahara?"

"This nethicite brought down an entire fleet," she groaned, rolling her eyes. "Forgive me for wanting it assessed by a source more reliable than Imperial skyscum."

He smiled. "You don't like me; I can handle that. But if you don't mind me asking…Is it because I'm a pirate or because I'm Archadian?"

She gritted her teeth. "It's because you're a jackass. Now if this is how the rest of trip is going to be carried out, I'll be spending it in the cabin."

And with this, she gripped the stone tightly in one hand and stomped out of the cockpit, her angry footsteps sounding all the way down the hall before being cut off by the slamming of the cabin door. A thick silence fell upon the cockpit before Basch at last defended her:

"…She's upset about Azelas."

"Right," Balthier replied. "Any excuse to act tough."

"Shouldn't someone go talk to her?" asked Vaan.

"After you," Basch groaned.

Vaan nodded, taking his seat. "Ahh…"

Penelo, already strapped in, looked over the shard of artificial nethicite from Monty. "Do you think mine's dangerous, too?" she asked with a weak tremor.

"Hard to say," Balthier answered, revving up the engine. "If it's still in the experimental stages, it could very well be worthless."

"Do I have to get rid of it?" she cooed frightfully. "Monty gave it to me…"

He rolled his eyes. "Just don't go blowing up any fleets, alright?"

Vaan laughed. She glared, but said nothing.

The ship began to rise out of the hangar, and Fran looked over the navigational system disinterestedly.

"There are three Imperial checkpoints on the way," she reported. "One we'll have to sneak through, but we can avoid the other two if we go around the Sandsea. It's four hours off course."

"Considering I've got a bloodthirsty Judge on my tail," said Balthier, "I think we can spare four hours."

"Good point," she replied.

"I thought you just cleared your name," Basch cut in.

"That was four days ago, Basch," he shot back. "Try to keep up."

Basch laughed and rose from his seat, heading for the cabin. "I think I'd be better at damage control."

"Good luck," Vaan added as he disappeared into the hallway.

Basch wondered if perhaps he should have given Ashe more time to calm down, but if she was to be a queen, she would have to learn to control her temper, so he decided not to let timing concern him. The lights in the cabin remained off, causing his shadow to stretch across the floor before him as he opened the door, ending at her feet as she paced the cramped room with brooding, cat-like strides.

"It's easier if you just ignore him," he told her.

She continued pacing, eyes focused on the floor. "…He's not easy to ignore."

"Well, it's not as though you've put much effort into practicing."

"How can you just never speak of her?" she asked harshly, ceasing her pacing and leveling a painful glare on him. "Doesn't it hurt?"

The question took him off guard, but he looked to her with somber eyes and answered her in a low, wounded tone: "…I died that day. Dwelling on it won't help me live again."

Her eyes fixed on him for a moment, less a glare than an inquiry, and she sat down on the lowest bunk, arms folded over her stomach, hugging her slender frame. "…You really tried to save him?" she asked quietly.

"He ended up saving me," Basch replied.


	16. Chapter 15

I've finished up the outline for this story, and it's looking like this chapter marks the middle of the whole thing, so I think I've earned a break. :) I'll be taking next month off, but don't worry—I'll be back before you know it!

In a more relevant note, I am really not happy with the way this chapter turned out. I couldn't decide on the whole Drace and Gabranth thing because the game gave evidence either way, so I put it to a vote with my friends (we proof read each other's work) and this is the result. I'll probably have to rework this chapter once I've finished the whole novel. Hopefully that way it will fit better.

Anyway, enjoy!

_XV._

Vayne had hated himself before, but never like this. When he told Lamont, he had been prepared for a flood of tears—he had been prepared to spend the rest of the night soothing the boy's anguish, assuring him that nothing would change, that everything would be just fine. But Monty hadn't cried since he was three, and even before then it proved a rare occurrence, so when no tears came, immense relief washed over Vayne. And then it got worse. His little brother's eyes became distant. He grew very cold, and very still, and in a low, meek voice, he said, "Oh."

Try as he might, Vayne could do nothing to bring Lamont to his wits, and at last called in a physician. Then, seeing that he was useless, he left Gabranth and Drace to keep watch with the doctor and returned to the scene of the crime.

Many soldiers guarded the hall to the throne room, all uneasy, trying not to quiver in their formal armor as their prince passed by. The doors remained closed, separating them from the controversy within, and as Vayne neared, the last of the Senators stumbled past him, escorted by armed soldiers and shouting with a combination of fury and terror, for that which angered them could well lead to their deaths.

"What possible cause could we have to lay hand on the emperor?" one cried, fighting against his restraints.

Another shoved off the soldiers that stood to his sides, stomping away on his own. "A deception and an outrage! The Senate will not stand for this!"

Vayne did not heed them, for they were the least of his concerns. He honestly could not tell if Monty was convinced, and this grated on his mind like no pain he had ever known, but the real danger lied in convincing the Judges; they did have the power—all of them together—to choose the next emperor, and while not all of them thought so ill of Vayne, he knew they each loved Monty with the same passion that they allotted to Archadia herself. Perhaps more.

He could not blame them for this weakness, for indeed he shared in it, but he refused to see his brother forcefully made into something he was not, and—clearly—he had been willing to take any steps necessary to ensure that such a crime did not come to pass.

Upon his return to Archades, Vayne had discovered to his horror that Lamont's existence had been publicly announced, along with the explanation as to why it had been withheld from the populace in the first place. The news had not yet reached Dalmasca at that time, but the celebrations had swept the Archadian capital, and he and Monty had been met by nearly the entire Judiciary force at the aerodome—the emperor would certainly not have his little prince ambushed by any undercover Resistance members.

Vayne had only briefly taken into consideration that Gramis would go to no such lengths for _him_, but Monty's panicked grip on his sleeve had drawn his attention from it, and while the boy quickly composed himself and released him, Vayne felt him walking tight at his side the whole time, and almost thought he could hear the mortified pounding of Monty's heart, though in hindsight he wondered if he had not in fact felt only the overprotective beat of his own.

He had watched the emperor stoop painfully in spite of his creaky old bones to embrace his little boy, kiss his hair, _smile_—things he never did for Vayne or his older brothers. Gramis doted on Monty—spoiled him rotten—and yet expected sheer perfection of Vayne, regardless of its effects on his sanity and well-being, but what troubled Vayne most was that he didn't even seem to recognize his own bias. He gave Vayne the usual salutary nod and walked off alone with Lamont, not to return for many hours. Monty would later report with a grim expression of surrender that he was not to go to the lab anymore, and that Gramis wanted him to sit in on the next Senate meeting. He had told him about Penelo, but he didn't seem to care.

"…He's planning something," Lamont had said sullenly. And then, turning his face to the floor and holding his head dismally: "God, I hate it when he plans things."

Vayne tousled his hair and assured him that they'd find ways to sneak off with Doctor Cid, and that the Senate wasn't so bad, and that his little friend would be allowed to visit once things calmed down, but even if the boy didn't detect the tremor in his voice, he surely noticed the shaking of his hands. Then, unable to stand by while his little brother was led astray, he headed for the throne room.

He father had shown him no warmth upon his arrival, though Vayne's experience with such things numbed him to the disappointment of it. Gramis preemptively addressed the issue—his rule had been built on preemptive strikes—and told Vayne that no harm would come to Lamont, and that he personally would oversee his security from now on. Vayne, however, would have none of this.

"You swore he wouldn't go public until he turned sixteen," he had growled with low-toned but otherwise obvious disdain.

"Our circumstances have changed," Gramis insisted calmly.

"Yes," Vayne scoffed. "The Eighth Fleet is gone and the princess of Dalmasca is alive. How do such changes warrant exposing Monty to the public?"

"By the time he is sixteen, I will be dead. With the country what it is, he will need my guidance."

Vayne had to resist tossing his head with adolescent rebellion. The emperor's voice had faded even further from its once authoritative pitch, his breaths wheezed heavily, his eyes sank in dim circles of sleeplessness, and the subtle trembling of his hands belied his already dwindling façade of vigor.

"…You're going to name him your successor," Vayne said studiously.

"Did you really not predict it?" Gramis replied.

His jaw set and his fists clenched, but he'd been raised well enough to keep his emotion from invading his voice. "How can you do that to him!? He's a little boy—the responsibility will smother him!"

"And you think you would fare better?" His father's eyes seemed to suddenly achieve a new level of criticality. "These days, you're lucky to make it an entire year without cracking…"

"And Monty is lucky to make it an entire week without escaping! He hates this life—can't you see that?"

"It is better that he should rule his own country than be sold in marriage to another."

"Better for you."

"If you cannot abide this, Vayne, you would do well to marry yourself into House Margrace."

"This crisis would not end were I gone," he said with a bitter sneer, just minimally retaining his composure. "The Senate hates the very fact that House Solidor exists. If you're just going to hand Lamont over to them on a platter, then by necessity, we must find reason to silence them."

"Ah, yes, necessity," Gramis mused. "Does that word free you, I wonder? I've already informed the Senate that at the end of next month I will be stepping down and serving as Lamont's advisor. Diplomacy often times works as efficiently as the sword." A pause, and then: "You show no hesitation to solve matters with blood."

"And yet you waged war on innocent lands for mere stones," Vayne countered.

The old man sighed, briefly turning his eyes to the floor and trying not to visibly shake his head in shame. "Is this your idea of vengeance, Vayne?"

"It is my idea of necessity."

"Haven't you always known that Monty is Archadia's future? He may be young, but he's _gifted_. He doesn't know how to fail."

"But he's not your baby anymore," Vayne insisted. "You can't just expect him to sit back and be trained as your replacement—whether you like it or not, he has free will."

"He will do as he's told."

"Like hell he will! For God's sake, Father, you're finally given a son you love and you have no idea who he is!"

Gramis winced at this, but hid it well. "Mind your words, Vayne. Either of your brothers would have run this country into ruin with their generosity."

"And what do you think Monty will do?"

"I knew your brothers, and I see now that I know you. Do you really presume that I don't know Lamont?"

Vayne rolled his eyes. "Just tell me: when you look at him, do you actually see him or do you see his mother?"

"His mother was perfect," Gramis growled.

"His mother is dead," Vayne snapped back. "It's your responsibility to look after his well-being. You know very well he cannot handle an empire."

The emperor might have laughed were he not so furious. "And you can—is that what this is about?" he scoffed. "Were Monty never born, I would still not entrust my legacy to you."

"I want this," Vayne said bitterly, drawing his sword. "Monty wants his own life—and he deserves it."

Gramis regarded the gesture without fear or surprise—he had been expecting it for some time—but Vayne had found it rather bewildering how easily he had accepted his fate, and knew with all terror that it would haunt the rest of his days.

"You would dirty your hands to keep his clean?" the emperor asked calmly.

"My hands are stained with blood," he replied. "I see little reason to stay them now."

When the chairman had entered the room before Vayne could stage a scene, he had no choice but to remove him as well, and he eventually decided that this would work to his advantage, given the tension that had been mounting between the Senate and the emperor over the last couple of years. Oddly, he felt a pang of pride in his work, though he had at times mistaken pride for shame and vice versa, and felt compelled to bear his father's sword—a little-known tradition in the Solidor line that he would not see passed on to Monty. He would not subject his brother to the violence that had built House Solidor over the ages. He ordered Bergan to summon Drace and Zargabaath, and spent the meantime pacing and plotting, the emperor's blade weighing down on his hip. Drace, of course, knew exactly what had happened and certainly wouldn't have let him near Lamont, so he claimed to need a moment alone and left with no further explanation.

Monty and Gabranth had been engaged in a conversation apparently of great importance—the new girlfriend, no doubt—but the look on Vayne's face deadened the atmosphere before he even spoke, and Gabranth took his leave without being ordered. For a moment, Vayne felt relieved that his brother had bounced back so quickly after being left in depressive wonder by their father's shrouded intentions, but this only increased the weight of his burden, causing his heart to sink that much lower when the boy failed to react to the news of what he surely—on some level—understood to be his freedom.

After several minutes of this, Vayne told him that he would be back, and that Gabranth, as he ordered, would stay with him until then, but his panic was only further fed by the numbness that overcame him when Monty leaned into the Judge's side—though in hindsight, Vayne did recall a time as a child when he himself had loved his bodyguard dearer than his brothers. Monty had told him once that Gabranth had a way of "making things better," and while he normally would have ordered the Landisian to leave them, he decided that in a time like this, he had no right to think of anything other than what was best for Monty, and thus he left, summoning a doctor to care for the boy while he cared for the future.

What he didn't know was that Monty had asked Gabranth to go after him. Gabranth went but reluctantly and only after seeing him to the care of the palace doctor, knowing that one of them would have to witness Vayne's actions firsthand, and, given Lamont's newly attained position, that he had no right to refuse. Unfortunately, his entrance proved ill-timed, as the tension over the situation had escalated when Drace pointed out the uncanny coincidence of Vayne discovering the massacre that had immediately put him on the throne.

"Vayne knew nothing of this!" Bergan insisted. "He could no sooner spot a viper in the bushes!"

"Do you truly believe that a 'viper' hid amongst our Senators?" Drace scoffed.

"With Chairman Gregoroth as its head," Vayne confirmed from the doorway in as threatening a tone as he could muster. "With what dignity remained him, he confessed and passed his own sentence."

"A viper with many tails," Bergan added as his master neared his side. "Much of the Senate is culpable."

Gabranth arrived silently, already regretting having left Monty, and abandoned his helmet in the pile with the others, as had become the custom for reasons that none of them could recall.

Vayne paid no heed to the resounding _clank_, too busy with his attempts of subduing—or, with any luck, provoking—Drace. "We have no choice but to strip the Senate of authority and assign powers of autocracy to myself until such time as order—"

"Spare us your lies!" she growled. "It takes little effort to see the serpent coiled here before us."

He rolled his eyes. Had his brother not been so fond of Drace, he would have had her killed years ago. He knew the boy could handle no more stress, but if she refused to conform, Vayne feared he would have no choice.

"Drace," Zargabaath warned, "you speak too freely!"

"Don't tell me _you_ join in this farce!" she replied.

He recoiled—she had that effect on people—but still persisted: "With Rozarria poised to invade at any moment, our leader must have a free hand."

"I suppose Monty is no longer a prince, is he…" Vayne said thoughtfully.

Drace glared at him. True, Monty remained next in line to the throne, but once Vayne had children, he could hold no higher office than that of a steward—the office that by all rights Vayne ought to currently be assuming. "Surely you would not go so far…" she growled.

"Judge Drace," said Vayne, "do you dare accuse me of plotting to harm my dear little brother?"

"Your father intended to alter his will this very hour," she replied. "The whole Senate will attest to it!"

"The whole Senate meant to place Lamont on the throne and use him as a puppet while pretending to advise him," Vayne contended, barely withholding a sigh.

Gabranth stepped in with as humble a tone as he could manage: "Drace, you know Monty doesn't want to rule. Let it rest."

"Who are you to direct his future?" she snapped. "You've proven beyond all doubt that brotherhood means nothing in the shadow of power."

This put him back in his place, and Zargabaath injected his own defense: "His Highness now has all that the boy could have taken from him—what reason is there left for any animosity?"

"I assure you all," Vayne groaned, "Monty is safe with me."

Drace's left hand gripped the hilt of her sword, though she still had the wits not to incriminate herself. "There is not a single being in all of Ivalice that is safe with you."

"And _you_ will protect him—is that it?" Vayne asked coolly. "Shield him from the horrors of the world?"

She glared.

"Preserve his childhood, whether he likes it or not?" he went on. "I certainly hope you don't intend to safeguard him from the Resistance as you so effectively did for me."

Just as he had hoped, this was the final straw: Drace drew her sword on him, there before them all. He could do it now. He could finally get rid of her.

"I protect him foremost from you," she growled.

"Easy there." He couldn't resist a small smile.

"Could you even bear to meet his eyes when you told him?" she went on. "Did you think about him at all before you did it?"

"I think of nothing but Monty."

"And yet you honestly have no idea what's wrong with him. I can't protect him anymore, Vayne. He knows the truth about you."

At this, Vayne reached for his own sword, but to his luck, Bergan was the quicker draw, preserving the new emperor's composure by holding his own blade to Drace's throat.

"That is enough, Drace," he warned. "If you truly love that boy, you will end this nonsense."

"And if I don't, you'll end it for me?" she shot back.

"You leave me no choice," Bergan went on. "Vayne did not make himself Emperor; it was the very ministry of law which you serve."

She gritted her teeth. Vayne's hand fell from the hilt of his sword, his expression no softer, but clearly more assured, and Gabranth stood a few paces to her side, giving her a forlorn glare that clearly communicated his desperation. All present knew Vayne had won. To bare her sword at the emperor was to bare her sword at the law—this was treason.

"You wear your saddle well, Bergan," she said at length.

She dropped her sword with a sullen _clank_, and a moment of stillness briefly befell the room, only to be shattered by Bergan's fury in the form of an unwarranted strike against her as she stood unarmed before him. Gabranth stepped forward, but yielded upon noticing that Zargabaath merely stood and watched. He had certainly never tolerated a cheater before, but now he appeared either too dumbfounded or too frightened to take any action in his fellow Judge's defense. Though completely floored, Drace had in an instant regained her sword and fended off a killing blow from Bergan, but he quickly resorted to a well-charged piece of magicite. Gabranth hadn't Zargabaath's patience or sensibility, and simply could not stand for two cheap shots in a row—especially not from a bastard like Bergan, and especially not against Drace. Drawing his own sword, he thwarted Bergan's attack, and then in a single strike simultaneously decked and disarmed him. He stopped there, however, noting the look of disappointment Drace gave him, but felt a pang of justification upon catching Zargabaath turn away in an attempt to hide his smile. Vayne, however, appeared neither angry nor amused.

"Brash, aren't we?" he said with a dry glance of boredom toward the dismally recovering Bergan.

"Gabranth—" Drace made to stand, but Vayne placed a hand on her shoulder and forced her back down, then stepped away from her with a slight smirk.

"Stay down."

Gabranth sheathed his sword at Drace's unspoken command and dropped Bergan's just out of his reach.

"A hound begging for scraps at the emperor's table…" Vayne mused, slowly walking up to the Landisian and looking him over with critical, reptilian eyes. "Would you serve another master?"

"My only loyalty is to Lamont," said Gabranth.

"Not according to the local grapevine." Vayne paused to search for some weakness in the Judge's eyes, but having raised a ten-year-old, Gabranth had mastered the art of emotionless appearance, and granted him no such favor. "If you truly expect me to believe in your loyalty," Vayne went on, "then prove it to me. You may fulfill your duty to the Judiciary before us all." He stepped out of Gabranth's path to Drace and met her eyes as he continued. "She has been tried and found guilty."

"Your Excellency," Zargabaath said softly, "I beg you reconsider…"

Vayne's despicable words continued to roll, but they were not addressed at Gabranth, and so he didn't listen. He turned to Drace, who looked up at him with an expression that seemed a mix of pure hatred and simple frustration—the kind that was usually followed by a weak smile. This time, however, she shrugged slightly, acknowledging the all-consuming helplessness and wordlessly bidding him forward.

A part of him knew that he had agreed to this years ago—that she was after all an Archadian, and that Archadia was after all an Empire. A part of him had known all along that no soul could be safe under such a government—indeed, not even the emperor's. But Drace had always seemed so indomitable—untamable—and to see her meet such an end served only to tarnish the fragile resurgence of humanity in him. Drace had shown him what it meant to obey a leader in whom no moral confidence could be placed, to sacrifice his image for what meant most to him. She was an imposing figure of authority, true, but she was also a fellow victim, a career soldier who had won admittance to the premier military academy in Archadia at the age of fourteen and never looked back, an invaluable source of happiness to Monty. It was people like her that reminded him of precisely _how_ his homeland had been conquered. It was people like her that reminded him why he no longer cared.

But a part of him also knew that she had agreed to the same fate, and that she certainly must have been expecting it for quite some time. Drace would only abandon Monty if she knew it to be for his own good, and never would she wish this torment on Gabranth (try as she might to convince him otherwise). Reading her expression, he found this sentiment laid bare, and yet he could meet it with nothing but fear.

She slowly turned her sword inward, offering him the hilt, and after a moment's hesitation, he took it, kneeling beside her and placing a hand on her shoulder to carefully push her down against the floor. The setting didn't allow for much conversation, but after nine-and-a-half years together, they could read each other's eyes well enough:

_Sorry I brought up your brother._

_It was true._

_Don't look so guilty._

_I can't do this._

_You're going to do this._

_No._

"Do it." Noting the horror that shone in his eyes, she took hold of the blade and set it at her throat. "That's an order, by the way."

He turned away, shaking his head. "Don't be like that…"

"Better to die than to serve a house of shame."

"Drace…"

Her gaze momentarily focused on Vayne, and seeing that he was distracted while Zargabaath pleaded for her life and Bergan justified her execution, she risked reaching up to touch Gabranth's face. "…There is no hope for me," she told him with gentle resolve. "You have to maintain your position—to protect Monty."

Still, he hesitated. The blade fondled the vein. It would sever her spinal cord—go straight down through her heart. If she felt any pain at all, it would be quick. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

The sword slid down with expert speed, and her hand fell to the floor. Against his will, he memorized the weak sigh that accompanied her final breath.

The conversation behind him fell silent, and Vayne stepped to his side, glowering over him, a nauseating expression of pride flickering in his eyes.

"Your loyalty is moving," he said at length. "However, in good conscience, I don't see how I can entrust my brother to the protection of someone so…heartless."

A hush descended once more, all three Judges staring at Vayne uncomprehendingly, doubting that he would burden his little brother so greatly in one day, but suddenly beginning to believe that he just might do it.

"…Vayne…" Bergan warned quietly.

"Monty's been getting into increasing amounts of trouble all his life," Vayne went on. "It's about time he moved past the influence of his bodyguards and found some decent role models."

"Bodyguards?" Gabranth scoffed. "I have raised Monty from the time he could barely crawl!"

"You and Drace."

"My Lord, please! You can't take him away from me…"

Vayne smiled tiredly. "I'll think about it."

And with that, he strode effortlessly out of the room, bidding the Judges over his shoulder to clean things up before he returned.

He did to a certain extent regret his actions, but his choice was indeed a difficult one to make: kill his father, or kill his brother. Only briefly had he considered his options, but thought not of taking the second. Monty was the only one who made him feel human—the only one who ever offered him unconditional love. His father's domineering austerity had often led him to unimaginable lows, and his mother's expectations never ceased to demoralize him, but Monty's mere presence alone expelled such sorrows. Truly, his brother's laugh could light up a room, and his tears break even the toughest hearts, and his gentle brown eyes, ever loving and ever hopeful, had never failed to warm him to his very soul. He knew the boy's kindheartedness came from his mother's side—the side they did not share—but it nevertheless proved most contagious, and always managed to lift Vayne's spirits.

When Monty was near the end of his first year—when he was just beginning to walk—Vayne had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was barely eighteen, and had just seen his first battle since killing his brothers. It was nothing momentous—simply a response to yet another Landisian revolt—but it was the first time since that terrible night that he had found himself with blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively, and he simply couldn't handle it. He couldn't hold his baby brother like that. Normally, his first order of business upon returning to the palace after any amount of time abroad was to find Lamont and hug him, muss his hair, roughhouse, whatever the moment called for, but that day he could think only of cleaning himself—of making himself good enough for his kind, innocent brother…making himself _worthy_. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, the blood refused to disappear. Before long, the blood became his own, but that didn't stop him. Zecht stopped him. It took a few punches, but he stopped him.

An hour later, with his hands bandaged and his mind exhausted, he faced his father, who glared at him accusingly, disgusted by his weakness. Before any words were exchanged, however, Monty tottered into the room, already able to escape his bodyguards despite being quite clumsy on his feet, and started toward Vayne at a precarious gallop. Naturally, he tripped on his own feet and fell forward, and Vayne, by sheer instinct, reached out and caught him. The boy laughed and threw his arms around Vayne's neck, failing to acknowledge the bandages wound around his hands, and Vayne simply fell to his knees and squeezed him back. Without a word, Gramis left the room, closing the door behind him.

It took him a long time to understand, but once he did, the world seemed gentler. Of course Monty noticed the bandages—he just didn't care. He loved his brother, regardless of how much blood was on his hands. That's what love was about. That's what Monty was about. Since then, Vayne's first priority had been ensuring that Monty didn't turn out like him, and so far, he had succeeded. But now he had more than blood to deal with. He had orphaned his best friend.

Upon opening the door to Lamont's room, he found him sitting just as vacant as before, and meeting the physician's eyes, he knew that he had little hope. The doctor rose and stepped out of the room, Vayne closing the door behind her to prevent Monty from exposure to any further trauma, though it soon proved unnecessary.

"Any change?" he asked.

The doctor shook her head slowly. "I'm afraid not, My Lord. He's in shock; there is no telling how long it may hold him."

"I see."

"Vulnerability now is his greatest fear—it would aid his recovery greatly for his bodyguards to return…"

Vayne's throat caught, but he managed to keep the discrepancy from showing in his voice. "I'm afraid they are currently suspected of involvement in the murder," he said. "I would not trust them with so precious a charge. Is there anything I might do for him?"

"Your presence alone I'm sure would comfort him," the doctor replied, "if Your Excellency can spare the time."

He smiled. "For my brother, I can spare anything."

It had been clear early on that Lamont would grow to be the spitting image of Vayne—indeed, all of Gramis's sons looked greatly alike. There were differences, though, spawning mostly from the fact that they had different mothers. While they shared the deep, impenetrable ebony of their father's eyes, Vayne's held a more slender setting, while Lamont's were exceedingly round. Likewise, both had their father's impossibly shiny black hair, but Vayne's held a tight curl about it, and Lamont's only faintly waved. Perhaps the greatest difference came in their smiles, but Vayne hated to admit it—the simple fact of the matter was that Monty's smile was never a lie.

Even as he opened the door he expected to be greeted with that smile, but found instead a still and unfocused boy, sitting taught on the edge of the bed, gazing emotionlessly at the wall. When he was a baby, Drace and Gabranth had always taken shifts on night duty, and Gramis had made a point to be available during the day, but Monty had on occasion cried while only Vayne was near enough for comfort, and he had always had success in calming him. Now, however, things were different. Back then, all it took was his presence—a hug and some soft words would quickly transform the wriggling, squealing beast into the familiar hot little bundle against his heart, the warm breath washing over his shoulder, the silky hair tickling his ear. Now it would take explaining, understanding—bravery. Now he needed the opposite effect. The calmness was there, wearing on him heavily, but there was no spark, no consciousness. The boy was as a thing lifeless, and Vayne had only himself to blame.

Closing the door behind him, Vayne took a few hesitant steps forward, looking Monty over with remorseful concern. "Lamont? Feeling any better?"

Silence. With a sigh, he sat beside his brother and spoke with an admittedly forced tone of gentility.

"I guess not. Several arrests have been made. We fear Chairman Gregoroth and Judge Drace may have been the ringleaders." The child's jaw set tightly, and his knuckles paled as his grip on the edge of the mattress intensified, but his eyes remained empty, playing skillfully on Vayne's guilt. "Monty, please, what do you want me to say? I know you and Father were very close, but you were aware of his illness—his age. He hadn't much more time as it was. I thought you were prepared for this." Still nothing. "…There's no shame in crying, you know."

Even if he'd had the strength to speak, Lamont had nothing to say to his brother, but Vayne kept up his coaxing, hoping for any sign of recovery. He would, after all, have to discuss the day's events at length with the boy before he could be sure it was safe to let him live. Now _that _he couldn't handle. _That_ was his worst nightmare.

"I've been thinking…" he continued awkwardly, venturing to pass his hand over Monty's hair a few times. "Now that they've made me Emperor, Rabanastre will need a new consul. That's where your—uh, friend-who's-a-girl lives, isn't it? Gabranth and Zargabaath could handle things until you're old enough. You can have your run of the palace, make lots of new friends...Or we could arrange something more common, if you wish—like you were never royalty at all." Monty continued to stare blankly across the room. "…You're just not hearing me, are you?" With a sigh of resignation, he slowly pulled the boy against him and held him snug, causing him to release his iron grip on the blankets, although he still remained rigid and otherwise unresponsive. Vayne couldn't help but smile sadly. "…Good."


	17. Chapter 16

I'm back! Maybe I can get a few chapters done ahead of time before school starts back up…

_XVI._

Ashelia had fallen asleep in the cabin, finding the gentle hum of the _Strahl's_ engines bizarrely comforting, and had been eased into consciousness as they slowed while landing, eventually silencing completely, leaving a stagnant, empty feel to the ship. She knew she had dreamed many pleasant things, but she could recall none of them.

Jahara had no aerodome, and Balthier had landed the ship a fair walk away out of what Basch called "common courtesy," and he insisted was nothing more than a "precaution." Vaan and Penelo had gone bounding out into the grass, delighted to have the opportunity of travel, and the princess found their exuberance mildly reassuring, though not enough to beat back her inhibitions.

The Garif were a proud people, engrossed in their ancient culture and religion to the point that many viewed them as unrefined and even ignorant. Unlike the Viera, however, they did not forsake the ways of others, and welcomed Ashelia and her cortege to their lands. Penelo wished to remain out in the plains, as the wild flowers scattered throughout enthralled her, and Vaan opted to remain at her side, as he still feared losing track of her again. As she flitted about gathering blossoms, dropping them in Vaan's lap and ordering him to sort them by color, the others continued onward to the center of Jahara, where upon mentioning the nethicite, they were taken to the chief, who dwelled in a hut atop a hill at the northern end of the village.

Balthier and Fran chose not to participate at this point, instead walking off to explore the surroundings while speaking in Vieran, much to Ashelia's annoyance. She explained herself to the chief, Basch remaining ever wary at her side, and he commended her bravery, speaking with great respect of Dalmasca and extending his gratitude toward her family for allowing them to go about their ways within Dalmascan borders free of interruption or conflict. The Archadians, he said, had been developing plans to open a trading route across the plains, dividing the lands used by the ancient Garif in religious festivals and holy rites. The princess had never considered making allies out of the tribe—she had only ever heard her father speak of them in passing, describing them as peaceful and useful, the milk, meat, and pelts of their herds contributing to the main food supply of Dalmasca's lesser cities. This struck in her the odd thought that she had actually seen very little of her country—and even less of the world.

None of the ways of the Garif had ever been purposefully hidden, save for their religious rites. In the chief's hut could be seen several tools of divine purpose, and throughout Jahara (and indeed all of the Ozmone Plains) stood shrines to deities of varying natures, but the chief had asked to be left in solitude with the nethicite while he performed the proper rituals to summon forth his gods to appraise it, and Ashe had obliged this request with polite if not uneasy adherence.

They waited many hours, exploring the village and watching the sun slide slowly from its height. Yellow haze shielded the pastel blue of the sky overhead, the sun warming the air without casting a glare over the horizon. The plains radiated a vibrant green, and the distant mountains loomed miles and miles beyond, a soft purple barrier between the grass of the plains and the sand of the desert. Vaan and Penelo darted in clumsy circles on the grassy expanse, having never seen the extent of their country's variety, and Ashe thought for a moment that she spied a slight glimmer of tears in Basch's eyes as he watched them at her side. She soon recognized Penelo as the focus of his attention, her light-hearted antics bringing a small smile to his face, but he did not allow himself to stare for long, and Ashe decided against mentioning it.

Searching her surroundings for some distraction, she overheard with deep surprise and deeper interest Balthier tell Fran that he found Dalmasca far pleasanter than Archadia, though they quickly reverted to Vieran upon realizing their proximity to the locals. The princess regretted her own preference for Dalmasca over Nabradia, for she was the direct heir of both thrones, but had come to understand that a home owed its relevance to its personal meaning, not to its politics or scenery or history. She had lived happily in Dalmasca, and for that it made her happy. She understood now the driving force behind people like Vaan and Penelo—to lose their home would be to lose a piece of their lives. Memories alone could not suffice.

Looking briefly then to Basch, her heart grew heavier still. Landis had been taken violently, divided between Archadia and Rozarria, many of its citizens forced to swear fealty to the ruling crown or else be executed without trial. The selflessness with which Azelas had so often described him became evident to her, for Basch fought not for vengeance, but to prevent such a fate from befalling others. Though she still hesitated to trust him, she suddenly felt as though she could not blame him for looking after her. He had failed his wife. He had failed her prince. A void had been left in his life that for the moment only she could fill, though she still resented her role as a replacement.

But soon, she knew, Dalmasca would be restored to its former glory, and all would be right with the world. Though at first she had been wary of the stone, she now felt certain that it would be her salvation. She could hear it—the cry of the nethicite's power—and yet fewer and fewer were the former whispers of the stone's menace. The tide, it seemed, had finally turned in Dalmasca's favor, and she at last began to consider her power with serious intent.

As the sun at last sank behind the mountains, the tribe raised a fire at the center of the village, and prepared sleeping quarters for the princess—a coarse wooden hut consisting of two small rooms with animal hides spread upon the floors and a small fire in the back. She accepted it with gratitude, and over dinner she spoke with the tribal elders of their history and views of the war, finding that while they agreed with her cause, their people did not believe in violence, even for purposes of self-preservation.

Though a part of her thought this philosophy of the purest ridiculousness, she did to some extent envy the Garif's ability to adhere to it with such honor and discipline. Never could she standby while such injustices were exacted upon innocent people, and never could she come to accept them with peace in her heart. She wondered if perhaps this had been the train of thought that Azelas had come to follow—not necessarily the path of least resistance, but the path of least pain for her people. Indeed, she knew that they suffered along with her. But on this she felt certain that her people also held her thirst for justice—for freedom—and could not convince herself that surrender may be an adequate solution.

Shortly, Vaan and Penelo returned from the fields, and Penelo joyously offered the princess a circlet woven of pink blossoms, which she graciously (though hesitantly) accepted upon noticing the yellow crown that Penelo wore and the blue one that Fran inspected uncertainly in the distance. Vaan and Penelo bombarded the elders with questions, but they didn't seem to mind, and in fact appeared to take great interest in explaining the nature of their way. But as night fell, the pastime grew old, and most of the village retired for the day. Before long, the plains had fallen silent, and the princess's cortege sat exhausted around the fire, wholly bored, but unable to sleep beneath the weight of such anticipation.

"What's taking so long?" Vaan groaned.

"Complaining won't make it go any faster," Balthier replied.

"You say that like he's actually going to listen," added Penelo.

"Hey!" Vaan exclaimed. "I listen just fine!"

Penelo smiled wryly. "When you want to."

Now he laughed. "'Selective listening,' I think Reks called it."

Penelo laughed as well. "That was one of his names for it, at least."

"Am I going to get an earful if I dare ask who Reks is?" Balthier interjected on behalf of the others.

"He's our brother," Penelo obliged.

"Dear God," said Balthier. "There are more of you?"

They both hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances before Vaan at last spoke up. "Uh…not anymore."

"…Oh," Balthier replied. "Right then."

"He means to apologize," Fran added.

Vaan shrugged, though his difficulty in restraining his emotions remained clear. "It was a long time ago. I guess he did what he had to do."

"He didn't have to," said Penelo. "He enlisted right at the end. I mean, he knew we couldn't win."

"Perhaps he just wanted to protect something," Ashe suggested.

"How can he protect anything when he's dead?" Penelo replied with a sigh. "Was it different for Rasler? Did that make sense?"

Ashe turned her eyes to the fire sullenly. "…It was expected of him."

"But what if it wasn't?" she pressed. "Didn't he have any reason?"

"Penelo!" Vaan injected a bit more harshly than he intended.

She bit her lip, her eyes widening greatly, and began to apologize, but Ashe shook her head, assuring her that it was alright.

"Nabradia was his home," Basch said upon noting the princess's discomforted expression. "I'm sure that was reason enough, regardless of the circumstances."

"I think it was the same for Reks," Vaan added. "I never really paid attention to the war until after he died, and then it was just…I don't know…Hating the Empire, getting revenge…it's all I ever thought about, but I never did anything about it. I mean, I realized there was nothing I _could_ do. It made me feel even more alone."

Ashe nodded. "…Hollow."

"Exactly," he replied. "And Reks must've felt the same way. I mean, sure he's gone now, but at least he wasn't useless. I think that's why I followed you."

"You think?" Ashe asked.

He smiled slightly and ran a hand through his hair. "Well…Okay. I guess I'm pretty sure."

"But how does that make it any different?" asked Penelo. "We're so small—against a whole country, I mean. The two of us joining the Resistance doesn't make it any more powerful."

"The Resistance was built by two people," said Ashe. "Every member joined alone. If they'd thought themselves too small to be of any use, there'd be no Resistance at all."

"So hopeful all the sudden," Balthier mused. "Keep that up and we'll never accomplish anything."

The princess sneered, but said nothing, as the chief approached the fire in that moment, carrying with him the nethicite.

"My Lady," he said respectfully as she rose to her feet to greet him.

"Done already?" she replied, garnering a muffled groan from Vaan.

"Unfortunately," the chief answered, and then, upon receiving a look of sorrowful inquiry from Ashe, he continued: "This nethicite—you have used it?"

"Yes," she answered, and then quickly followed with, "It was not I who used it, though. Indeed, I had hoped you could show me how."

"You do not know the workings of the stone?" he asked.

She shook her head, and he sighed dejectedly.

"…Then I fear we are no different."

"What?" asked Ashe.

"In ages past," he explained, shaking his head, "the gods made a gift of nethicite to my people, but the manner of its use eluded us. Displeased by our failure, the gods took back their stones, and chose instead to give them to a human king. He used the nethicite's power to bring peace to a troubled time…The Dynast King…It is a curious thing: though the blood of King Raithwall flows through your veins, you cannot wield nethicite."

"Cannot wield it?" she echoed distraughtly. "So then…am I to understand you can't tell me how?"

He nodded and handed the nethicite back to her sorrowfully. "Though it shames me so to admit. Here before me stands a descendant of the Dynast King himself…and I can accord her no help at all. Still, even if you knew how to use the nethicite, you would find it of small avail. The Mist collected in the stone over ages past is lost, and with it the stone's power. It will be your posterity who wield this stone in ages yet to come. It is devoid of power—empty, yet full of thirst; a terrible longing to drink the world dry. The power of men and of gods…of good and of evil…It is often those who desire nethicite whom the nethicite itself desires."

At once Penelo's eyes brightened and she called out over the fire with glee: "Monty!?"

"Penelo!"

She suddenly sprung across the circle, having seen before all others the young prince wandering weakly through the village gate, his eyes sunken and his posture unhealthily lax. Despite his appearance, though, he managed to find within him a hidden surge of energy and ran to meet her, crashing happily into her arms and squeezing her with pathetically lacking strength.

"How did you get all the way out here?" she asked with a giggle, bending low and pulling him close.

"Long story," he replied shakily. "It's good to see you."

While the others bade the Garif chief farewell and cautiously started toward the two, Penelo couldn't help but note Monty's refusal to release her in a timely manner, and hesitantly voiced her concern: "…You're trembling." He didn't reply, but only let his head drop on her shoulder for a moment. "Monty, I can feel your ribs—"

This, however, prompted him to abruptly push her away and gather his wits with expert speed. "I'm alright. Wh—where's Balthier?"

Her brow furrowed at such behavior, but before she could respond, Balthier stepped up beside them and spoke in an unusually skeptical tone. "You're not going to take off running this time are you?"

"Hopefully I won't have to," Monty answered, pulling a wrinkled envelope from within his vest and holding it out staunchly. "Here—from Doctor Cid." Balthier's glare intensified, but the prince remained undaunted. "Trust me. You want to read it."

Another second of tension ensued, and at last Balthier snatched the letter harshly and strode back toward the fire with Fran at his heels. But the relief was cut short, for now Ashe folded her arms and shot the boy an unforgiving glare.

"Are you traveling alone?" she demanded coldly.

"Does it matter?" he quipped in reply.

"To us, yes. Hasn't it occurred to you that contacting us could endanger you? Could endanger your father?"

"My father's dead. Vayne disbanded the Senate and took over."

Penelo was stricken with pity at the revelation, and cupped her hands over her mouth to keep from putting it to speech, but the reaction among the others was unified horror.

"What!?" asked Ashe. "When?"

"Six days ago," Lamont continued with an eerily stony countenance. "I know it's irresponsible of me, but I didn't know who else to come to."

"…Come to for what?"

"I—don't really know. Help, I guess. Doctor Cid smuggled me out of Archadia, but they caught up to us in Rozarria—"

"You went to Rozarria!?" Basch interjected concernedly. "What were you thinking?"

"I had to." Lamont's tone was decidedly pleading, though he showed no sign of surrender. "Rozarria's thirteenth prince has been in league with Doctor Cid for years. We needed him to represent his father's empire in peace talks—" He turned back to Ashe desperately. "He'll do it if you will."

"Peace talks?" the princess sneered.

"He's agreed to meet with us in private at Bur-Omisace with the Gran Kiltias as mediator, if you're willing. This war can be stopped, but we have to work together."

"What war?"

"The one you've been fighting all this time. You know Marquis Ondore leads a group of insurgents—your pardon! He leads a large _resistance_ force against Archadia. Neither of our countries can afford this now. The Rozarrian Empire would aid the Resistance—use it as a pretext to declare war on Archadia—and Vayne would have no choice but to answer. The Gran Kiltias may give you his blessing to rightly wear your crown and declare the restoration of your kingdom. As queen, you can call for peace with Vayne and stop Halim."

Ashe had had enough. Monty was indeed among the sweetest of all children, but whatever horrors he had faced in tracking her down appeared to have stolen not only his naiveté, but his logic and manners as well. "For peace!?" she growled. "How dare you suggest such a thing!? The Empire attacked us—stole all we hold dear—and you would have me save them from war!?"

"Dalmasca would be the battlefield!" Lamont argued. "What if nethicite were used on Rabanastre? You know my brother would do it!" He seemed to have more to say, but a sudden dizzy spell interrupted him, causing him to clench his eyes shut and hold his head, and then to teeter precariously toward Ashe.

"Are you alright?" she asked, foregoing talk of war and taking him by the shoulders to steady him.

But he would have no pity and backed away with a quick recovery. "I'm sorry if I presumed too much, but please understand: I just don't want anyone to get hurt. I'm sick of violence. If you can't trust me, then…well, take me hostage. Vayne will have to listen."

Disregarding his somewhat forced display of maturity, the princess crouched down and easily over-powered him, pulling him forward and managing to briefly press the back of her hand to his forehead before he slipped out of her grasp. "You've got a fever…"

"It's nothing!" he defended. "I'm fine!"

Ashe just stood, uninterested in negotiating with an ill and desperate child. "…What happened after they caught you in Rozarria?"

"…What does that have to do with anything?"

"He ditched you, didn't he?" Balthier interrupted, dropping Cid's letter into the fire and rejoining the group. "Couldn't risk losing funds for his research."

"He's our only safe link to Vayne," Monty replied. "I couldn't blow his cover."

"And you've been on your own since then?" Penelo asked frightfully.

"I can handle myself. I'm a Solidor, remember?"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "You're a ten-year-old boy who hasn't eaten in six days. Come on." He seized him by the collar and began dragging him toward the hut. "We're getting you cleaned up whether you like it or not."

Monty put up quite a fussy protest, but was no match for the skypirate's grip. The others attempted to intervene, but Fran posted herself at the door and reassured them:

"You can trust him."

"What?" asked Penelo.

"Balthier is Archadian," Fran explained. "His prince is without Judges to protect him."

Vaan shook his head. "But last time—"

"Besides, Master Lamont is no longer loyal to a corrupt house."

"We don't know that for certain," said Basch.

"What?" Penelo replied disbelievingly.

"The mere fact that he is young," the captain explained, "should not determine how deeply we trust him."

"Don't be ridiculous!" cried Penelo. "He's a frightened little boy trying to save his brother."

"Trying to save him?" said Ashe. "I'm not so sure. He said Cid is our only safe link to Vayne…What do you suppose that means?"

"I don't mean to sound insensitive or anything," Vaan added, "but if I was Vayne, I'd off him like _that_." He snapped his fingers carelessly, causing Penelo to wrinkle her nose is disgust.

"Why would he want to kill him?" she demanded. "He can't run a country!"

"Maybe not yet," Basch answered.

"As long as Lamont is alive," Ashe explained, "he's a threat to Vayne's throne. The people will demand a switch at the first sign of disappointment."

"And with the situation between Archadia and Rozarria what it is," Basch continued, "Vayne is likely to disappoint, regardless of his actions or inactions. With Lamont in charge, the Senate will be reformed and _they_ will run Archadia's affairs."

Penelo's shoulders drooped in defeat. "And any mistakes they make will be considered their own fault, not his."

"Exactly."

"There's just no bright side, is there?"

"We're not looking at this from all perspectives," Ashe went on gently. "Vayne and Lamont are brothers—and they're very close, aren't they? Suppose they're manipulating us together…Wouldn't this be the perfect way to gain our trust?"

"Oh, come on!" cried Penelo. "Monty's not like that! He hardly even knows how to lie!"

Basch cocked his head thoughtfully. "But he's not above bending the rules when he thinks it's important enough—we saw that firsthand in Bhujerba."

"That was different…"

"He's got a point, Penelo," said Vaan. "If Vayne convinced him this was for everybody's own good, he'd do it."

"He may not even know what it is that he's doing," added Ashe. "He may truly think there will be negotiations—we don't know this Doctor Cid very well."

Penelo looked distraught, and resignedly turned to Fran in hopes of a different opinion. "Fran? You're good at sensing these things…"

"I believe the boy is honest."

"No offense, Fran," Vaan said hesitantly, "but this is a pretty big risk to take based on one of your feelings."

"No feeling," she said. "See for yourself."

She stepped away from the hut's door and gestured to a crack in its jamb, which they gathered around with silent curiosity. However, even without a full view of the situation, as their voices ceased, they all perceived what Fran's sensitive ears had been tuned to all along: Lamont was crying. It was a hushed sound—no sobbing or wailing, as is the custom of most children, but rather gasping, as though the boy was out of breath, accompanied by only a few sniffles now and then. Through the crack, they glimpsed him by the fire in the back room, its door slightly open, crouched on the floor with his face buried despairingly in Balthier's chest. And Balthier, uneasy but obedient to his cause, simply held the shuddering child, stroking his hair and whispering to him that everything would be alright.

They left for Bur-Omisace the next morning.


	18. Chapter 17

Change of Cid to Mid is purely for the sake of double-Cid confusion. Let's face it: the world is apt to explode if there are two Cids. And Cindy helped me out a lot with this chapter…so blame her if you don't like it. :)

_XVII._

Holy Mount Bur-Omisace stood amid the jungles reportedly inhabited by Viera, where no human dared tread, but although the rabbit race forbade the presence of humans on their lands, they had no objection to the use of airships to fly over their land, nor did they disturb the two pathways that led to the mountainside by means of the outer edge of the jungle, and thus the mountain had long been populated by humans. It had been said that once in a great while a group of Viera would ascend the mountain to speak and trade with the humans there, always peacefully, but maintained their own borders with far more violence than most would consider due.

Bur-Omisace thus proved to be a truly neutral territory, if even the vicious Viera regarded it as sacred, and Ashelia hoped with all earnestness that some agreement could be reached there. She could tell that Basch mirrored this hope, though she seemed to have effectively trained him to remain silent—something she had never quite been able to accomplish with Azelas. Vaan's interest in the plan appeared somewhat opposing, however, for he, too, kept his mouth shut about the conference, clearly having nothing nice to say about it. While he more or less admired Monty, he still had no love for the Empire—not that Ashe blamed him. Penelo remained in the cabin, keeping watch over the little prince, for although his fever had broken easily, his perilous travels had exhausted him, and he had not yet woken from the deep slumber that he had cried himself into at the Garif village. She, like the pirates, appeared quite neutral towards the events that were to take place, which the princess took some comfort in.

Ashe herself stood at the back of the cockpit, deep in thought. It had indeed shocked her to see Balthier care so tenderly for a child, but it shocked her more to realize how greatly his countenance resembled Monty's. The boy had appeared practically heartless as he delivered the news of his father's death—careless, even—but once he escaped all judging eyes, he broke down perhaps even faster than could be considered normal. She wondered if Balthier was like this—if he was only strong for the sake of others.

She herself had been in such a position for much of her life. The people needed her; they depended on her for hope and perseverance—her father had often told her this. For Lamont to face such trials at his age, she hardly expected him to understand the importance of bravado, but he certainly did, and looking back on Balthier's interference, it seemed that he did, too. Ashe knew, though, that it was a learned skill. Monty gave in fast, as was expected of him, but never had she seen Balthier lose control, and that could mean only one thing—he'd had many years of practice.

Even looking at him now, it became more and more evident that he hid within him a great deal of pain. True, to any other he would seem perfectly content, sitting at the controls, cracking jokes with Fran, but she had seen the look in his eyes that night in the hut as he tucked Monty's head beneath his chin—he was hiding something. He had been discomforted by the crying child as many would be, but his greatest fear that night had been buckling with him, revealing his own emotions, facing whatever tormented him. But Ashe did not know how investigate this, nor was she entirely sure that she wanted to know the truth, and thus she simply sat beside Basch and listened in as the pirates gave Vaan flying lessons, which did a good deal to lighten her mood.

When Lamont finally awoke, it was from a nightmare. He had sat straight up with a gasp, but seemed to realize quickly enough that he was in no real danger and flopped back down, laying his arm over his eyes and exhaling deeply.

"Are you alright?" Penelo had asked.

"I think so. Where are we?"

"Balthier's ship. I think we're about half-way there."

He turned to her with a look of mild confusion. "…There?"

"Mount Bur-Omisace. Remember?"

She felt somewhat let down when he didn't smile, but the glint of unfettered surprise that overcame his expression soon quelled this. The simple fact that he had put into motion a plan of fixing things refreshed his hope, and almost instantly the gravity of the situation seemed to lessen, though Penelo knew that danger still loomed over them at every turn.

It quickly became clear, however, that he didn't like to worry people—didn't like to be doted on. But she had insisted on feeling his forehead, and then ordered him to down a glass of water. He protested that he no longer felt sick, but she was not one to be argued with, and he eventually gave in. Then, of course, she demanded that he eat something, assuring him that it would make him feel better and that it was her last order. Given that she had promised her previous order would be the last, he refused, claiming he wasn't hungry, and didn't relent until she agreed to eat with him. Sure enough, it put him in better spirits, and sure enough, it was not her last order. Next she told him to go back to sleep, but he wasn't tired (so he said), and he wasn't ill, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you. Needless to say, the prince had grown quite skilled in hiding his true emotions, but when Penelo finally asked him if he just wanted to be left alone, he grabbed her arm with a frantic look of terror in his eyes and told her no.

So, she climbed up onto the bunk beside him and they sat side-by-side against the back wall with the sheet over their heads like children, which they were. She had been unsure of the propriety in asking him about his family, but in the end, she didn't have to. He asked about hers—what they were like, what she did when her parents died, how old she had been—and she related her experiences as best she could without bursting into tears. He seemed particularly saddened by her description of Reks, likely because he felt somewhat responsible for his death, but she thought nothing of it. War was war, after all; there was nothing he could have done. For the most part, she managed to restrain her tears, but her voice cracked at one point, and she had to take in a shaky breath to continue, and she probably would have indeed cried had Monty not scooted closer and snuggled up under her arm.

He himself had a similar experience when telling her about his mother:

"After Vayne's mother died, Father could never sleep, so he'd stay up all night pacing around the palace. My mother—she was an orphan, but her father was a Judge, so after he died…I don't know. I guess it was guilt. Her job was to scrub the floors at night, so she wouldn't be in anybody's way. That's how they met. He used to tell me all the time that I have her eyes. She was only eighteen when I was born. Drace said she died holding me…She said she was smiling."

Unable to bear seeing him cry again, Penelo had carefully taken his hand in hers. It proved more than enough to settle him, though she was prepared to shift to her side and hug him should the need arise.

He told her about his early years—how they were spent at constant victory parties under the alias of a distant cousin of the Solidors, where every noble lady would pet and kiss and fawn over him, and Vayne would allow him a few sips of champagne, and he would wake the next afternoon with only fleeting memories of the previous night. By the time he turned two, he had sat through enough high court cases to pick up the terminology, and would often shout out "Objection!" at random, only to have his father or brother reply "Overruled!" Vayne taught him to fence, and Drace taught him to read. Gabranth taught him to curse in Landisian.

His interest in science started young, urged on by Doctor Cid and his wife, the palace garden-keeper, whom Monty described as a gentler version of Drace, more interested in having fun than obeying rules, and always eager to teach him some new escape tactic, as she was intimately familiar with the palace grounds and knew the intricacies of every dark corner and secret passageway. Likewise, Cid seemed to embody all the less dignified aspects of Vayne and Gabranth, assuring Monty that rules could bend quite a long way before breaking, and that as long as something good was discovered at the end, the means were always more than justified.

Monty, it seemed, was living proof that it took a village to raise a child—even a royal prince. But he nevertheless displayed the usual signs of childhood occasionally, and recently appeared to have become far less interested in fitting in among adults, though Penelo could not tell if this was because he had seen what they were capable of and shunned it, or because he simply couldn't handle the stress that had been so quickly and so brutally heaped upon him all at once. A small light of joy had returned to his expression, but when she mentioned the others in the cockpit, he seemed to once again withdraw, and would likely have freed himself from her arm had she continued.

Noting this discomfort, she slid the backs of her fingers delicately over his baby-fine hair and let them trail down his cheek deftly until he took hold of her hand and pressed his face into her palm. Glancing down at him, she found his eyes closed peacefully, and then felt a small tremor go through his spine and quickly pass to hers.

"…Ready to go out and see everyone?" she asked quietly.

"Not yet," he whispered.

His left arm carefully snaked behind her while his right passed over her stomach to encircle her waist. Eyes still closed, he nuzzled his head against her chin and let it rest on her collarbone, and she tightened her protective hold on his shoulders, letting her hand remain where he had placed it, softly caressing his face.

"You're still my hero, you know…" she said.

He smiled, and she rested her head on his.

Out in the cockpit, Vaan had relinquished control of the _Strahl _to Balthier after nearly nose-diving into a wooded hill, and in the subsequent calm the ship adopted in the hands of her captain, the princess had drifted off to sleep. Fran had begun to show Vaan the navigation system, though his curiosity and admittedly short attention span made it slow-going. Before long, faint frequencies sounded on the interceptors, soon revealing themselves as Archadian in origin and military in nature, much to Vaan's nervousness. However, they appeared relatively far off—near the summit of the mountain, whose base they had yet to reach—so panic proved yet unnecessary. But Balthier knew better than to further irritate Ashelia, and thus decided he'd better give her fair warning of the new development.

"Princess?"

Receiving no answer, he turned to see that Ashe slept serenely against Basch's side, her head resting on his shoulder and her hair hanging slightly over her eyes. Basch appeared rather uneasy about this, but he obviously didn't know how to politely wake her. Balthier just rolled his eyes—muttering something along the lines of "lucky bastard"—and switched on the ship's intercom.

"PRINCESS!"

At this, she leapt from her seat with a start, her hand already at the hilt of her sword before she realized she had no real cause for alarm. She leveled a glare on Balthier, who smiled in return.

"Good morning," he mused.

"Do you have a death wish?" she shot back.

Vaan turned away to hide his muffled laughter from her.

"I might," Balthier answered. "We're picking up Imperial frequencies. They've probably put up more checkpoints to find Monty."

"On neutral territory?" Ashe asked.

"Neutrality makes it that much easier," he explained.

She shook her head. "You can get us through, can't you?"

"Well…"

"You got through one before."

"To be honest, Princess, I'm not so worried about us."

"…Oh."

"Hey!" Vaan stepped in. "If we can get through, I'm pretty sure a Rozarrian can. We're just pirates, after all."

"_Just_ pirates?" Balthier scoffed.

"I suppose a Rozarrian would jump at the chance to make Archadia look bad," Ashe added.

"Occupying neutral territory?" Basch replied. "It almost seems too easy. But it could trigger more trouble than we're prepared for."

Ashe nodded contemplatively. "True."

"On the other hand," said Balthier, "we're dealing with a prince, not the emperor—he might not be willing to piss off his old man."

"We should wait for him anyway," said the princess. "We'll lose nothing if he doesn't show, and if push comes to shove, Vayne will receive no less than his due for imposing on neutral ground."

"If you say so," Balthier conceded.

The door to the hallway opened with a squeak, and they all turned to the back of the cockpit, finding Penelo there alone.

"Hey, everyone," she said casually.

"How is he?" asked Ashe, more quickly than she had intended.

"Not great," said Penelo, "but I think he's getting better."

Balthier smirked. "I think you're going to make a fine empress one day."

"Oh, quit being gross!" Penelo squealed.

"Give it about five or six years," Balthier insisted. "Then see how gross it is."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…" Vaan injected. "I'll knock the kid's block off!"

Penelo giggled. "You wouldn't stand a chance."

"She's right, you know…" Fran added.

"If they really wanted to bring down Rozarria," said Basch, "they'd throw Monty on the battlefield and let him have his way."

"I'd pay to see that," Balthier confirmed.

"Seems like a sound plan to me," said Ashe. "He's definitely his father's son."

Penelo grimaced. "Oh, don't say it like that."

"Relax," Balthier assured her. "He'd have to be in exceptional form to work over Emperor Margrace. Not all royals are pushovers like Princess Ashe here."

"You've been in exceptional form yourself as of late," the princess retorted. "Assisting us without payment, looking after the prince—hardly your nature."

"I'll get my payment eventually," Balthier replied, "and the last thing I want is for Vayne to come under the impression that I'm responsible for any ill-happenings that may befall the brat. You don't have to worry about me—although I can't say I'm unaccustomed to people doubting my intentions."

Ashe rolled her eyes. "We've all grown immune to your double-talk, Balthier."

"Oh, have you now?"

"I've screwed you over before payment-wise, and you'd have been safer to leave Lamont with us. Now, you're a welcome hand and a great aid, but you've yet to explain why."

"I'm only here to see how the story ends—any self-respecting leading man would do the same." Seeing the deadpan doubt on her face and the clear amusement that the others so poorly hid, he dropped his smirk and thickened his sarcasm: "Shall I swear by your sword or some such?"

Luckily, Monty entered the cockpit at that moment, at first relieving the atmosphere, but then suddenly weighing it down once more, for they all knew that there could be no explicit mention of his breakdown; he would not be able to maintain his dignity among adults if he knew that they had seen him cry—that they had seen him act his age for once.

"Hey!" said Vaan. "He's alive!"

"More or less," Monty replied with a shrug.

"How are you feeling?" asked Fran.

He smiled sweetly, though somewhat forcefully. "Much better, thank you." And then he turned to Ashe, and his expression seemed overwrought with guilt, though the more likely explanation was simple shyness. "Your Highness…" he said quietly, drawing her attention more by his tone than by his address. "I just wanted to apologize. I, uh, wasn't much of a gentleman back there."

"I wouldn't have listened if you had been," she replied with a nod, turning to the wide window of the cockpit to resist smiling. "We should reach Bur-Omisace by noon. We'll see if your Rozarrian friend shows."

"The thirteenth prince, huh?" Balthier mused. "Wouldn't that be Al-Mid?"

"Yes, unfortunately," said Monty.

"Should I have heard of him?" asked Ashe.

"Well," Balthier answered upon seeing Monty's hesitance, "he caused a bit of trouble last year—drag-racing Imperial ships with his cousins, or something."

"Perfect," Ashe groaned.

"Don't worry," Monty insisted. "He's known for his open-mind-edness."

Balthier rolled his eyes. "That's not all he's known for."

"Meaning?" asked Monty.

"Uh, maybe when you're older."

The boy gave him a mischievous smirk. "Worried about your princess?"

"_My_ princess?" the pirate scoffed half-threateningly.

"What's there to worry about?" asked Ashe.

"Nothing!" Balthier growled. "Everything is going to be fine!"

"Unless you fly us through the lab," said Monty.

"Hey, that was a long time ago."

"I still can't believe the _Strahl_ made it out of there in one piece; it's a miracle you're still standing."

"You think you could do better?"

"There's only one way to find out."

"Don't get your hopes up."

"Let him try it," Vaan injected. "You let me."

"You let Vaan fly your ship?!" Penelo asked. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"Hey!" Vaan smacked her arm, and she promptly struck back, initiating yet another of their childish tussles.

"Trust issues?" Ashelia asked.

"Logic issues," Balthier corrected.

"Or are you just worried that he'll be better at it than you are?" Basch added.

"Damn it…" Balthier groaned, rising out of the pilot's seat and shoving Monty into it. "Alright, kid. If you put a scratch on my baby—"

"Calm down," Monty said tiredly. "I know what I'm doing."

Balthier shook his head. "I've heard that before."

Monty smiled. "Okay, I mean it this time."

The others looked on in bemused wonder as the boy kept the ship steady, even amid Balthier's nervous flurry of instructions and warnings. Monty's inexperience did show, but he proved more apt at piloting than Vaan, and Balthier seemed to calm a bit as he realized this, though he remained wary for the sake of his ship.

"You've done a lot of work on her," Monty noted after a moment.

"Of course I have!" Balthier replied. "I banged half the life out of her in Archades, and that pathetic little engine could barely get her off the ground. It isn't really nethicite, is it?"

"No," he admitted, "just regular magicite. We did try, but there were deadlines and all."

Balthier subtly grimaced at this. "And he thought your father wouldn't find out?"

"He didn't, did he?" Monty replied with a rather peeved tone of arrogance.

"Thanks to my work of genius," the pirate corrected.

"Forgive me for not being grateful."

"Forgive me for not expecting it. How'd the old bastard get this thing moving, then? Not even Fran can figure it out."

"He magnetized a piece of magicite and broke it in half," Monty explained matter-of-factly, "so each piece alternately transfers its energy to the other until they're separated."

Balthier raised an eyebrow. "…Magicite that behaves like nethicite?"

"Something like that," Monty confirmed with a nod. "The energy can only go between the rocks, though. It can't be discharged. He's tried."

"I bet he has," Balthier groaned. "I suppose you'll be wanting it back now?"

"No, you can keep it."

At this the pirate appeared to adopt an openly suspicious countenance, though he seemed to harbor no ill to it. Monty caught on quickly, though, and continued:

"If I wanted it back, I could've just pulled in a favor from Reddas."

Balthier blinked. "Oh."

"It's not much use anymore," Monty went on. "Cid came up with the nethicite model right after you disappeared."

"So much for throwing a wrench in his gears," Balthier muttered.

"Sorry to have to tell you this," said Monty, "but it didn't matter anyway. He used your genetic magicite model to create artificial nethicite. Without your research, we wouldn't even be able to understand it, much less manufacture it."

"We also wouldn't be in this whole mess, would we?" he replied, crossing his arms indignantly. "All my research ever did was give_ Doctor_ Cid a thirty-second high on his own pride."

Monty briefly looked up at him, but knew better than to take his eyes off the horizon and immediately got back on track. "Don't be so hard on him—he has his moments, but he's a scientific genius."

"Oh," Balthier scoffed, "is that why he's always talking to himself?"

"He doesn't talk to himself," Monty shot back, "he talks to Venat."

"And just who is Venat?"

"…The, um…well, the name he's given to the voice in his head, I suppose."

"Oh, well, then I supposed I had better…" Balthier trailed off slowly, his eyes growing as they focused on some sight of apparent interest in the distance. "Whoa…" he said quietly. "That's more than just a security check…"

Monty's eyes widened as he looked upon the same sight, and the others stood and gathered in around the window in shock. The summit of the great mountain now stood within distant view, but swarming around like a choking haze of fog was a full fleet of Archadian ships. Many appeared to have landed in the nearby peaks of the lesser mountains that stood in the range, and by the looks of the settlements they had erected there, it appeared that they had the means to stay for quite some time. None, however, dared land at Bur-Omisace itself, for that particular mountain remained known world-wide as a politically neutral shelter to refugees, and to occupy it even peacefully would warrant outrage from every corner of Ivalice. The jungles at the base of the mountain range, too, remained untouched, for it was there that the Viera resided, unwelcoming of humans. Only two land paths led to the summit without trespassing on Viera territory, and the Imperials had quartered off both of them.

"Oh, no…" Monty whimpered dazedly.

"Looks like Vayne's a little worried about you," Balthier replied.

"I thought Bur-Omisace was neutral," Penelo whimpered.

"So did I," replied Monty, rising from the pilot's seat so that Balthier could steer the _Strahl_ into hiding. "…I don't suppose Archadia's known for playing by the rules, huh?"

"What?" asked Balthier. "You really didn't see this coming?"

Ashe shoved his shoulder harshly. "Will Al-Mid be willing to risk all of this?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Monty. "I'm sure Cid would give him fair warning."

"Well, what do Your Majesties want to do now?" Balthier groaned.

Monty looked to Ashe sheepishly. "The Gran Kiltias will still hear you."

"How do you propose I reach him?" she retorted.

"If you hand me over, they might leave…" the boy suggested with a shrug.

"Might?" asked Ashe.

With the ship safely hidden, Balthier leaned back and sighed irritably. "Nothing personal, Monty," he said in an oddly casual tone, "but we can't be sure of exactly which Judges we're dealing with here. You can talk down Gabranth and Drace easily enough, and I can handle Zargabaath, but Bergan will take no quarter from either of us, and for all we know, Vayne himself could be up there."

Monty's eyes dimmed slightly as he pressed himself to think harder, but the grimness of the situation settled on his face with unmistakable weight, and Fran at last intervened:

"…We could walk," she said slowly.

"…Through the Golmore Jungle?" asked Ashe.

Fran nodded. "I could lead us."

An uncertain silence fell over the ship, but Balthier seemed oblivious to it.

"Where do we land?" he asked.

"Near the coast," said Fran. "East of the mountain."

He maneuvered the ship carefully amid the low hills, guiding it toward the ocean and away from the Empire's gaze. "Hope you're all ready for a hike."

Lamont smiled then, and it was as if the world had begun anew.


	19. Chapter 18

I don't mean to sound desperate, but I would really appreciate some reviews on this chapter. I tried to make this conversation a little more tactful, but I'm not sure how effective I was. In the game, it just seemed like a "by the way, now I'm going to share some deep, personal details of my private life with you and pretend things aren't awkward later" type of thing. (Video games are prone to doing that.) All reviews are welcome, but that's the area I'm really curious about. On with the story…

_XVIII._

The coast proved quite different from what the Dalmascans had expected, for although they were accustomed to sand and heat, the deserts of Dalmasca baked under a dry sun while the beaches of Rozarria sweltered in humidity, and the fine sand of Dalmasca seemed akin to dust in comparison to the coarse, rocky gravel that they now walked on. Though they technically had landed on neutral territory, Rozarria's border neared them, and the exotic jungles the empire had grown famous for extended quite close to the ocean.

Golmore Jungle surrounded the base of Mount Bur-Omisace, a geological wonder, and while the mountain declared itself neutral to all conflicts and policies, the Viera that dwelled below had declared themselves hostile to all trespassers, making the summit accessible only by airship. However, the Viera revered the mountain as holy—just as the humans did—and therefore maintained a peaceful truce with those on it, speaking the human language to them and sometimes trading food and supplies with them. Anywhere else, the Viera remained nothing more than a myth.

Fran appeared to know the area faintly, and scanned the horizon with great awareness, struggling to refresh her memory. She did not lead the others onward immediately, however, for Vaan and Penelo had eagerly darted toward the ocean as soon as they laid eyes on it. Monty looked to Balthier pleadingly, and the pirate released an irritated sigh.

"Just stay where I can see you—should make things easier."

"For us both," the boy replied, heading out toward the surf.

Basch and Ashelia watched the children play with mildly subdued interest, both rather distracted with the coming journey through the unknown, but also taking comfort in the joy that their companions brought along. Vaan and Penelo had grown far too serious since meeting Ashe—too engrossed the struggle for their homeland—and seeing them enjoy the trip to foreign lands seemed to lift the great shadow that had settled over the general mood of the group.

Of greater interest, however, was their complete willingness to welcome Monty into their midst—two Dalmascans, happily playing with an Archadian on neutral land. That such a sight might become commonplace stirred new hope in Ashe's dim heart, though she unfortunately found such acceptance difficult to cultivate within her own attitude. Lamont was no ordinary Archadian—she could not deny this, and even if she tried, he too greatly resembled his brother for her to succeed.

The Solidor men were renowned for their chivalry, intelligence, and stunning good looks. All were thin and tall, with broad shoulders and sturdy hips, and Monty proved no exception, though he still somewhat retained the fair features and build of childhood. Most notable now, however, was the structure of his bones. He had always been a lean, lanky little thing, but his recent starvation had done away with the baby fat that primarily denoted his age, leaving in its wake the strong, boxy jaw that ran in his family and the eerily calm seriousness that so often overcame his big brother's expression. He had finally begun to resemble a prince.

And it made Ashe shudder.

Rather than allow herself to think too hard into her own childhood, she turned to Basch and awkwardly spoke: "I suppose he's something of a nephew to you?"

He regarded her with mild surprise, but his relief that she should speak even indirectly of his brother without anger superseded this, and he turned his eyes back to the water and continued walking as he replied. "May as well be. But don't think you'll be able to get rid of me that easily."

"Even you have to admit that he needs a babysitter more than I do," she went on.

At that very moment her foot sank into a particularly deep pit of sand and she lurched forward in search of balance, finding instead Balthier's hand. As he caught hold of her right arm, Basch steadied her by the left, but she quickly shook both of them off.

"You were saying?" Basch asked.

Balthier smiled with arrogant bemusement. "Hasn't living in a desert all your life taught you anything about walking in the sand?"

She yanked her hand free of his lingering grip. "Hasn't living in Archadia all your life taught you anything about touching women?"

Basch laughed. "It's not in the nature of royalty to be grateful."

"Perhaps we should trade," Balthier offered. "Make her see how good she's got it."

The Landisian cocked his head now, trying not to smile. "Hm. Good idea."

"What?" Ashelia asked flatly.

"Try not to rough her up too much," Basch told Balthier as he headed toward the kids.

"No promises," Balthier replied.

"Fine!" Ashe called after Basch. "I've earned a vacation."

With an undeniably childish huff, she plopped herself down on a nearby rock. Balthier and Fran exchanged a few words in Vieran before she calmly walked off into the shade of a tree that provided a better view of the chaos that was Vaan, Penelo, Basch, and Monty building a sandcastle.

"…What was that?" Ashelia asked.

"What was what?" Balthier replied.

"Must you always be so difficult?"

"Comes with the territory, so I'm told."

She huffed. "I don't see why she even bothers to stick around."

He studied her expression for a moment, then explained: "…It's not like that."

"Then what is it that you two are always so intently discussing without the rest of us?"

"The weather."

Ashe leveled her eyes at him with striking emotion, and he continued with a poorly subdued huff of irritancy:

"Alright. Just now, she asked how old Monty is."

"That's it?" the princess asked.

"Age is a strange thing to Viera. To her, a ten-year-old is still an infant."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So that's all you said?"

A salty breeze rustled the leaves above them and he ran a hand through his hair. "I told her I want to get rid of him."

"…You do?" she asked, straightening her hair as well, though she had little success with the wind gusting from behind her.

"Well, I don't really mind him so much," said Balthier, "but it's not smart, keeping him around with his brother on the loose."

"What did she say?"

"She said I'm stupid and she likes him."

"Oh."

"Right up your alley, eh?"

"For the most part." The breeze ceased, and she leaned back on her wrists. "I do agree that we shouldn't keep him for too long, though. Vayne doesn't strike me as the type to take this sort of thing lightly."

"Especially now that he's got so much power to throw around."

"But Lamont isn't like Vayne. His influence might actually get us somewhere."

"Placing an awful lot of trust in the little chap."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think I shouldn't?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then you're shocked that I should trust anyone."

"I didn't say that, either."

And now she turned her gaze back out to the sea. "Well, then I can only assume you're fishing for more collateral."

"Ouch," said Balthier. "Is it really so hard for you to be optimistic?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. No pirate works without payment and no Archadian works for the Resistance. The only reason you could possibly have to help us is that it somehow serves your own selfish whim."

"Whim?" He took a step back at this, glaring at her with what she correctly perceived as hurt masked by anger. She was right, though he refused to let her know it, and instead he mirrored her glare as he reclaimed his ground with a step forward and spoke: "Alright. You want me to level with you? I don't care about your money, and I don't care about your revolution. I care about your dear little rock. You may not be able to admit it, but that thing is getting to you."

"Getting to me?" she scoffed sharply, rising from her seat and matching his advance. "I am not out to conquer all in my sight—I'm not Gramis. You know very well that this stone is useless to me."

"And yet you still carry it around like it's going to save your soul."

"I keep it only to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Empire."

"If you really believe that it's useless to you, what makes you think it would be any danger to you?" At this her eyes averted, and he knew he'd won, though he remained unsure of whether or not it would do her any good. "You think there's still hope of recharging it—using it, or at the very least leaving it to your descendants to use."

She folded her arms. "I would never burden my family with such a decision."

"Raithwall did," he pointed out.

"He sought only to protect our line," she defended quietly, turning and stepping out of the shade.

"Do you really think so?" Balthier asked, following her as she headed slowly for the surf. "I think he was testing your line. I think he knew that the nethicite would destroy you if you used it—and I think he knew that anyone willing to use it would need to be destroyed."

She stopped about halfway to the shoreline and turned her face up as though inspecting the horizon for an incoming ship. "Then I'll destroy the nethicite."

Balthier's eyes remained focused on her. "Are you sure?"

"You insult my intelligence," she said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye before turning her face back down toward her feet.

"Unintentionally, I assure you," he replied as she began walking once more. "But it's true: the best purpose invites the worst trouble."

"Lusting for ever greater power, blinded by a simple rock…" She turned and met his eyes. "Is that how you see me?"

"No, but that's how I've seen others." And now he walked past her, toward the darkened sand near the waves.

"Meaning?" She turned to watch him.

"It's a long story."

"I'm listening."

"Just don't give up, do you?" He looked to his side, finding her standing there, the toes of her boots licked with sea foam. "Enough with the act, Highness; I know you've no interest in anything I have to say."

"Now you insult my compassion," she bit back with a frown. "Face the facts, Balthier—I'm going to get it out of you one way or another."

"Mmm…sounds fun."

She shot him another of her jabbing glares.

"Very well, then," he said with a smirk. "I suppose it's my duty as a man to indulge what ladies ask it of me."

"Ahem."

"Right. Sorry. Oh, where to begin…Let's just put it this way: I once knew a man who was obsessed with nethicite. Not all his life, mind you, but for a decent part of it, from the very moment the damned rock was discovered. From then on, it was all he cared about, second to none—not even his family. Everything he did, he did to get closer to the nethicite, to document it, understand it. It was time-consuming work, but vast technological accomplishments were achieved through his research. He made fuses, airships, weapons…He even made me a Judge."

"…A Judge!? You!?"

"Not a very good one—which I imagine makes me one of the best. Nevertheless, it's all part of a time I'd rather forget. And thankfully, it didn't last long. I left the Judiciary—and him. Good old Cidolfus Bunansa: Draklor Laboratory's very own Doctor Cid. He loved science more than anything, and his wife was well aware of it. I found her lying out in the garden one day, beneath her favorite tree…I thought she was asleep, until I got close enough to see the blood. I gave the note to him, sealed, just as I found it, but he burned it before I could ever read what she wrote. That's when he lost his heart to science—when he lost himself. And I suppose that's when I lost my father.

"First it was just curiosity, and then it was hope. Now it's fear, right? Next comes pride, then arrogance, then ambition, and before long you've got voices in your head and no time for anything else. Please understand: if you love only one thing, you'll reject the love of all others, whether you intend it or not. Even if you truly mean to destroy the nethicite, who's to say you'll be able to when the time comes?"

"You can't base your whole world on one experience," she said quietly, stepping toward him, but then halting for fear of excessive closeness. "Where some may fail, others could just as easily triumph."

"Huh." He granted her a casual smirk. "There it is."

"What?"

"Optimism. Did it hurt?"

"Practice what you preach."

He seemed to look past her then, and after a moment, called out, "…Monty?"

She turned to face her cortege out on the beach. Vaan, Basch, and Fran knelt in the sand, struggling to keep the castle from collapsing, and Penelo waded out in the water, one hand hiking up her skirt while the other fished for sea shells, but the prince they had been so lucky to find seemed to have now gone missing. Just as Ashe prepared to call out to him as well, his voice sounded from a short distance behind them:

"Up here!"

Looking to the tree they had previously stood beneath, they saw him jump down from the branches with a handful of leaves.

"Oh, for God's sake…" Balthier groaned.

Monty laughed. "You wouldn't last ten minutes in my cortege."

Another half-hour passed before they set out again, and Ashe and Balthier supervised the castle-building with perhaps more amusement than such an activity should have provided grown adults. The shells became windows, the leaves flags. Fran appeared both baffled and bemused by the commotion, clearly unsure of what to do, but taking great interest in watching and occasionally fetching a few handfuls of damp sand when prompted. When the creation reached its completion, it resembled less of a castle and more of a foreign beast of indiscernible species, but all felt quite proud of it nonetheless, and they shared a sorrowful laugh when the incoming tide washed it away. And then, bereft of their entertainment, they continued on their journey.


	20. Chapter 19

I debated just cutting this whole subplot thingy entirely, but I'm too much of a Fran fan to get rid of her. I think we can make do with the abridged version :)

_XIX._

Upon first glance, none would suspect Golmore Jungle guilty of the violence legends had attributed to it. The thick leaves filtered the heated rays above, lending a softening green light to the forest air, and the plants seemed to reach out to the delicate living limbs, curious and eager to experience the strangers who so raptly experienced them. The silence of the atmosphere soon felt holy in nature, the jungle no longer a dense gathering of greenery that housed inhuman warriors, but rather a lush cathedral erected to honor the primordial beauty of the world and its wonders.

Moist ferns carpeted the ground in closely clumped patches, and thick roots broke through the soil like great sea beasts surfacing amid waves. Though rays of light did pierce numerous spots in the distance, at times it appeared as though the sun had fallen, for the vibrant green canopy above them gathered such a mass of branches, leaves, and occasional avian dwellings as to block their view of the sky entirely. No paths could be seen, though Fran walked with confidence along a well-memorized (if visibly imperceptible) trail that so far proved quite safe. However, a bit more than a half hour of this wore on her, and she paused for a moment amid a cluster of thin saplings to flex her ears with due strain and carefully observe the area.

"I can't…hear Her," she said softly, a saddening look of confusion overshadowing her face.

Vaan looked at her uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"…I—it's alright," she replied, continuing on. "I know the way."

The others looked to Balthier for some explanation, but he simply shrugged and followed after her. Indeed, even he had never heard such a waver in Fran's voice.

The youngsters stuck close, knowing the dangers of the jungle, but the creeping vines and fluttering orchids tempted them, and the verdant trees that grew at times several meters in thickness at their trunks seemed to bid climbing through the humid silence. The rumors that surrounded this jungle served as a powerful deterrent, but all hoped that having a Viera guide would exempt them from the traditional treatment of trespassing humans. Still, the threat lingered, and Penelo, her fingers beginning to tremble as the monotonous silence trudged on, at last spoke, if only to hear something familiar amid the strangeness that engulfed her.

"Isn't this your home, Fran?" she asked skittishly, eyeing the fern-laden horizon.

"Yes," Fran answered, not bothering to look at her.

"Looks kinda lonely," Vaan noted.

"So does the Sandsea," Fran replied.

"There are cities out here?" he pressed.

She still kept her eyes focused forward. "Yes."

"Come on!" he goaded. "Tell us about it. You need to talk more!"

"I've found that it's quite difficult to think while talking."

Balthier and Monty cracked smiles at this, but managed to contain their laughter. Penelo giggled.

But Fran led them over a fallen tree, then, and there manifested before them a translucent wall of light, not much different from the mighty Mist illusion that disguised Raithwall's tomb. However, this device seemed to have the opposite effect, for it only revealed itself when approached, and could not be penetrated. Fran touched it daintily, a look of both suspicion and expectation on her face, then let her hand fall back to her side and stared at the glimmering shield for a moment in silence.

"What is it?" Vaan asked her hesitantly.

"The jungle denies us our passage," she answered.

Ashe gazed at her worriedly. "What have we done?"

"We?" Fran replied. "Nothing."

"What?" Vaan asked.

He received no answer, however, for Fran had already turned and begun to walk back the way they came. This seemed at first worrisome, but soon she turned again, rounding a large tree trunk and stepping into the brush. Balthier followed her closely, questioning her in Vieran:

"Making an appearance?"

"I am."

"I thought you'd left for good."

The others kept their distance, but watched with intrigue as another wall of shimmering energy appeared, sealing off Fran's apparent secondary path.

"Our choices are few," she went on, still in Vieran. "This is as much for you as it is for me."

"Oh?" Balthier asked haughtily as she laid a hand on the force field.

"You are ill at ease."

"Can you blame me?"

Suddenly she withdrew her hand and turned to face him directly. "Collateral?" she asked.

He drew in an uncertain breath, but didn't recoil.

"More than the nethicite troubles you," Fran said plainly. "You've let your eyes betray your heart."

All of the sudden Ashe stepped in. "Is there any particular reason we are unwelcome in your conversation?"

Both pirates regarded her a bit cockily, and then Fran faced the magical shield once more and began tracing mystical glyphs on it with her fingers. "We must go to Eruyt to seek permission," she explained in the language of humans. "It is not far, but we may still be denied access to the mountain."

"Eruyt?" asked Basch. "Where you're from?"

"Yes," said Fran. "My sister is priestess."

"So she'll listen to us?" asked Vaan.

She completed the series of symbols and flattened her palm against the glowing surface, and all at once it evaporated, clearing their way through the jungle. "Maybe," she continued. "Humans are unwelcome in the village—as am I. If she turns us away, we mustn't protest."

Monty glanced up at Fran concernedly. "…You don't want to do this?"

"It isn't about what I want," she said with sullen resolve, once again taking stride through the brush.

Mist grew more common as their trek progressed, the very air swirling with glyphs and reflections, whispers of thought in its most basic form. Within ten minutes they came upon a large gate built around the trees, sectioning off a gathering of earthen dwellings separated by well-groomed paths. The gate stood open and seemingly welcoming, but Francesca halted several yards from it, eyeing the two armed guards that stood at its posts, who eyed her and the humans in return.

"Why're we stopping?" Vaan asked.

"It is holy ground," Fran explained. "You mustn't go past the gate, understand? They will kill you."

Everyone nodded, Monty and Penelo stepping closer together, and Fran continued:

"Wait here."

With this, she strode forward, addressing the guards in Vieran. They did not appear to meet her graciously, but did not attack her, either, leaving the humans relieved, but confused.

"What are they saying?" Basch asked Balthier.

"I don't know," he replied. "They're going too fast. Something about us. They don't like us—I got that much."

"Perfect," Vaan groaned.

"Alright," Balthier went on. "They're getting someone. I think we're good."

"You think?" asked Ashe.

"You want to go ask them?" he shot back.

She rolled her eyes with a sigh.

Fran then turned to the group and beckoned them forward with a nod, but as they approached the guards left, heading farther into the village and ultimately disappearing behind the grassy, fern-covered knolls that rolled amid the trees.

"They go to find Joté," Fran explained. "She can clear the path for us."

"You can't go in, either?" Penelo asked.

"I have no reason to," she answered.

Three young Viera children, all female, scampered past the gate, the youngest stopping briefly to glance at the humans, perking her ears and crinkling her nose curiously before being dragged out of sight by one of the others. The gate guards, too, had been female, and Vaan and Penelo both took notice of this, but could think of no polite way to question it. No other Viera could be seen from the gate, though their homes appeared quite serene and befitting of rabbits, and the lovely lilies and orchids that grew about the area provided a calming fragrance that lulled the suspicion of the jungle.

"…It's beautiful," Ashe observed.

Fran blinked in reply, staring silently into the distance.

"Perhaps the world would be better off without humans," Basch added.

"Boring," said Balthier, "but better off."

The two gate guards returned then, their long legs stretching gracefully through the grasses and their sheathed swords swaying with their steps, but with them came a third Viera, this one unarmed and dressed in more elegant but less practical attire. Some unnamable quality in her state of being signified her authority over the village, and yet she did not appear to acknowledge this authority, instead moving amid the wood as any other creature native to its depths, regarding it as another living entity, rather than a mere place. Her countenance, however, contrasted with the pervading serenity of Eruyt—a dour, displeased expression of suspicion overcoming her fair features, aimed at Fran with patronizing scrutiny.

"You must leave at once," she said in Vieran. "It is not allowed for humans to walk on these grounds."

"They mean the Wood no harm," Fran defended, also in Vieran. "I can keep them in line."

"The rules are not made without reason," Joté insisted.

"You've told me this," Fran argued.

"Must you hear it again?" she shot back.

The humans shifted uneasily, none daring to look to Balthier for a translation, and none needing one, thanks to the tone of the conversation. Viera were beautiful beings, each a representation of the perfect human form, enhanced with the exoticness of the jungle—their smooth chocolate-hued skin, dark jewel-like eyes, and shimmering white hair, as well as their ears and tails, peculiar, but nevertheless attractive. But this exceptional beauty masked the ferocity with which they greeted outsiders, and the humans, all aware of the rumors that surrounded the race, could not be eased by such heavenly visions.

The guards kept their distance, maintaining watch over Joté, ever ready to draw their swords on the trespassers, and the three children who had spotted the humans earlier hid in the brush, their ears peeking over the foliage occasionally, but it soon became evident that other eyes watched them as well. A rustle amongst some ferns, a shimmer of light in the leaves above, and once in a while a flicking ear, visible but briefly in the distance—the Viera hid themselves well, but their curiosity got the better of them. It occurred to the humans that Fran had likely been aware of this, perhaps throughout their entire journey through the jungle, but if she did not mention it, all knew that it was likely meant to go without mention.

"We seek passage to the mountain," she continued, still in Vieran, but Joté remained firm in her resolve.

"Use your unholy airships," she sneered, delicately folding her arms.

"We would if we could," said Fran. "Joté, you know I would not come here if it was not important."

"It must be very important indeed, for you to bring your war-hungry humans along."

She shook her head, her tall ears swaying gently. "They are not war-hungry—they seek peace."

"Peace?" Joté scoffed.

"They are leaders of human countries," Fran explained. "A meeting is to be held before the Gran Kiltias to settle their arguments…"

"Why should I believe such things?" Joté groaned.

Vaan leaned over to Balthier. "Where are all the men?" he whispered.

"They don't need them," the pirate answered quietly.

"Then how do they—Ow!"

Balthier promptly elbowed him in the ribs. Joté took notice of this, glaring at them starkly, but then returned her gaze to Fran and spoke with smooth-toned discontentment:

"The Wood tells us about these humans. Can you not hear Her?" Fran turned her eyes downward forlornly, and Joté continued: "Your ears are dull from listening their harsh speech. Viera who have abandoned the Wood are Viera no longer."

Balthier folded his arms irritably. "So you abandon them in turn?"

Joté raised an eyebrow, obviously not expecting any of the humans to understand Vieran, but then seemed to grudgingly accept it, and thus continued in the human language: "We must live always with the Wood. So is the Green Word, and so is our law."

"The humans do not intend to break your laws," Fran insisted, speaking also in the human language, for the benefit of her colleagues. "Why should we forsake them? Why not live together?"

"So you asked me fifty years ago," Joté replied. "The Wood has told us how deeply you care for these humans. What will you do when they are gone? You know you will out-live them. The Wood is eternal and unchanging—She shelters us from such heartache."

"It will be worth the time I have spent with them—the lessons I have learned from them."

"Nothing can be learned from lesser beings."

"Fran!"

Joté turned at the shout, and the others scanned the thick wood for its origin, finding a younger Viera—no older than Vaan or Penelo—bounding toward them joyfully. Fran smiled at the sight, catching her human companions off guard, and called out to her:

"Mjrn!"

They met with a tight embrace, exchanging quick, joyous words of Vieran that managed to goad a slight smile from Joté, though Mjrn seemed momentarily taken off-guard by the humans. Fran assured her in Vieran that they meant no harm, but this did little to comfort her, for as she studied the situation—the guards at the gate, the morbid countenances of all present—she stepped back and somberly met Fran's eyes, asking what was wrong.

"…I am not staying," Fran explained slowly in the humans' language.

Mjrn gave her a questioning gaze, still holding her hands tightly. "Why not?"

A faint glint of remorse shone in Fran's eyes, then, and even in the absence of words or expressions, Mjrn saw what she hoped to hide and turned to Joté. She, in turn, glanced downward in a silent admission of guilt.

"Joté?" Mjrn said, more a reprimand than a question.

"It is the Wood who creates the laws," Joté answered steadily. "I merely enforce them."

"But our sister is back!" Mjrn cried. "Why should the Wood not rejoice?"

"That is above our reasoning," said Joté.

"We are born of the Wood!" she pressed. "We hear Her always, one with Her will. We should share the same reasoning!"

"…Mjrn," Fran injected, "the Wood does not stretch on forever. Beyond the trees, there is nothing to hear. She is only a piece of Ivalice."

"Then why does She reject other pieces?" Mjrn snapped back.

Fran then appeared to reach the breaking point of her uneasiness, glancing from the corner of her eye at the bewildered humans behind her, and reverted back to Vieran. Mjrn met her words with still more fervor, bringing an expression of defeat to Fran's face, and Joté, interrupting also in their language, took up the argument, receiving another of Mjrn's answerless questions.

"Mjrn," she replied firmly, "know your place!" Mjrn scowled, but said nothing, and Joté continued on to Fran and the others in the human tongue: "Your presence here is blasphemy. You must go back the way you came and never return."

"That cannot be all!" Mjrn begged. "Ivalice is changing. How can the Viera stay and do nothing?"

"Ivalice is for the humans," Joté told her. "The Wood alone is for us."

"You would have us just hide here in the trees!" Mjrn insisted. "What if I go with Fran? Will you forsake me, too?"

"I will not take you," Fran injected, gleaning a shocked, feminine gasp from her little sister. "You must remain away from the humans," she went on more gently. "Live together with the Wood. This is your way."

Mjrn's eyes grew round, glistening at the rims, clearly wearing on Fran, but seeming to strike a chord of regret in Joté as well. The young Viera stepped forward disbelievingly, fists clenched and voice desperate. "But Fran—"

"You mustn't be like me," Fran insisted, fight to remain still when her sister so obviously needed reassuring contact. "I won my freedom, yet my past has been cut away forever. No longer can my ears hear the Green Word. Do you really want this solitude?"

"Sister…"

She shook her head. "No, Mjrn. Only one sister remains to you now. You must forget my existence."

Mjrn gave her a hard, begging stare, then told her quietly in Vieran that she was no better than Joté and walked away, a dazed, brokenhearted expression overcoming her lovely face. Fran's eyes closed momentarily as she turned her face to the ground, but she did not remain weak for long, soon looking back up to Joté sorrowfully.

Joté, in turn, sighed and shook her head deftly. "…I am sorry to make you do this."

"If she goes against the laws of the Wood," Fran replied, "she will be no better than I am. I threw down these laws of my own volition. It is better that I do this—better I than one who must uphold these laws herself."

"…The Wood says you have earned your passage. Go straight to the mountain, and pass through on your return without delay. What the Wood tolerates, Eruyt does not—you are still unwelcome here."

"Thank you," Fran said with a low sigh. "We will go quickly."

Joté nodded, but then Fran hesitated, glancing briefly at her feet and then meeting eyes with her sister. She drew in a heavy breath, then spoke once more in Vieran: "The Wood…I fear She hates."

Joté paused also, mildly shocked by the statement she knew she should have foreseen, and replied in the same language. "She longs for you—for the child gone from under Her boughs."

"A pleasant lie," Fran whispered.

Joté shook her head with dismay, then spoke slowly. "…She is jealous of the humans who have taken you."

"I am as them now, am I not?"

Joté gave her a longing stare, but said nothing.

Fran blinked slowly, taking in a small breath and nodding once as she spoke: "Goodbye, Sister." And she turned fluidly, walking away with the perplexed humans at her heels, leaving Joté on the other side of the gates. Dozens of Viera abandoned their hiding places and neared their priestess's side curiously, eager for a glimpse of the outsiders, even as they disappeared into the lush green distance.

Many minutes of silence passed as all pondered whether or not it would be appropriate to speak. Fran strode smoothly at the head of the group, limbs significantly less languid than usual and scarlet eyes trained lifelessly ahead, and Monty watched her with intrigue for a moment or two before breaking away from Vaan and Penelo and taking up pace at her side.

"Fran, are you alright?"

Though she felt quite clearly the warmth of his eyes upon her, she did not make any attempt to meet them. "I will be."

He took her hand quickly and stopped her. "…You're a good sister."

She paused for a moment, looking down at him as though she didn't believe him, but then smiled softly, and took her hand out of his and passed it through his hair. "…Thank you."

"Hey, Fran?" Vaan stepped in hesitantly. "I was wondering…It's just—what she said, about you leaving fifty years ago…How old _are_ you?"

Monty cringed, and Basch let out a brief laugh, but managed to muffle it. Penelo held her hands over her mouth. Ashe shut her eyes and slapped her forehead. And Fran, not one to dignify such an inquiry, gave Vaan the iciest glare he had ever received, then turned without a word and continued walking.

"Nice, Vaan," Balthier groaned, following at her heels.

Penelo, Basch, and Monty started laughing, and Ashe simply rolled her eyes.


	21. Chapter 20

_XX._

The wonders of Golmore Jungle passed rather quickly—within a single day of travel—and the royal party soon began their climb to the top of Mount Bur-Omisace. The terrain lessened in detail as the trek furthered, leaving the fauna and wildlife of the jungle behind and replacing it with barren dirt and the occasional patch of feral grass. Another day's journey provided an abundance of distractions, however, for the higher up they rose, the rockier the ground became.

The weather grew increasingly chilled as they ascended the mountainside, and before long, minute dry snowflakes began to appear in the darkness of morning, dusting the path before them like sugar on cake, only to melt away beneath the sun by midday. Damp terrain and dim scenery accompanied this, as the clouds steadily thickened above them, but the mischief of the children kept things relatively light, even with the pressures of the conference to come weighing silently on the thoughts of them all.

Vaan felt at first unsure of how to react to a ten-year-old wooing his sister, but he eventually found it to be rather comforting. Monty had been raised to be a gentleman—chivalry, honor, etiquette, and all the other things that Vaan had no knowledge of sat high on his list of priorities, and he took better care of Penelo than Vaan himself often did. If the ground rose or lowered, if ice or rocks presented, if there was anything that might obstruct the girl's path, Monty took her hand in his to guide her—subtly, and often while he spoke so as to deny her any chance for objection. Vaan had to fight to restrain his smile, and the adults, who strode warily behind them, ever on guard, could be heard whispering and snickering from time to time, happy to have relief from the stress of their plight.

Penelo, however, felt embarrassed, overwhelmed, patronized—and unbelievably happy. For much of her life she had been trash, the rubbish shoved into the slums so as not to offend the rich, and now here stood a member of the world's most powerful family, laughing with her brother, walking at her side, hanging on her every word. She couldn't deny that she felt somewhat disgusted by her crush on the child, but as Balthier had said—give it a few years. She was six years older than Monty, which seemed an ocean at their current ages, but would become a mere pond when they both reached adulthood, though by then he would undoubtedly hold political power of some kind, which would complicate things considerably.

But soon enough, she realized how ridiculous she was acting—how absurd it was to imagine a future with a royal prince. For now she had the best friend she could ever ask for, and she would be content for him to remain such. When next he took her hand, she gripped it securely, not allowing him to release it, and he squeezed hers in return, warm and reassuring.

Balthier and Fran had both furtively taken charge of Monty's care, one always close at hand, though maintaining a fair enough distance that he didn't feel imprisoned. They seemed to have earned their knowledge of guarding royalty from observing Basch's experiences, though they clearly found the job significantly easier than he.

Ashe appeared to have accepted Basch as as good a babysitter as she could hope for, and clearly took comfort in Vaan's antics, though she went to great lengths to hide it. Mostly, however, she focused her attention on Monty, in whom she found a distant recognition that brought back memories of her childhood—some welcome and some not. He was without doubt a good deal more precocious than she had ever been, and it wounded her to think that he should concern himself with politics at his age, but he certainly had an ambitious zeal for it, and so she allowed herself to admire his devotion.

Basch tried not to keep too close to the princess for fear of aggravating her even more, but he soon realized that she had ceased her protest—if only temporarily—and would even take a surreptitious step closer to him at times. He pretended not to notice, as he felt sure she preferred, but secretly he reveled in relief. Her trust proved the most difficult to gain; if he could manage this, then surely his marred reputation had at last been left behind him. Still, though, he knew that he could not replace Azelas, and thus remained wary of Ashelia's ever-subdued affections. The last thing he wanted was to refresh healing pain.

Also of concern was his recently realized habit of studying Penelo with perhaps too much intensity, though he did not think she had yet noticed. He tried deliberately to avoid staring, but with every laugh she sent echoing through the crisp mountain air, his attention again drew to her. She was sixteen—the same age his wife had been upon their first meeting. She had the same vibrant yellow hair, the same jewel-like blue eyes, and the same warmth that radiated in her very being—a cheery, careless girl, ever distracted with some new wonder, or else concerned for another, even those she barely knew. Penelo was slowly killing him, and he found it painfully comforting.

On the third morning of their travels, they found Lamont curled up beside Penelo, a good five or six feet from where he had fallen asleep the night before. Upon receiving several glares, Penelo explained that he'd had a bad dream and suggested letting him sleep a while longer, as he had been up most of the night. But it was decided that it was in the best interests of the group as a whole to reach the summit before nightfall, and thus Balthier flopped the sleeping boy over his shoulder and they continued on.

Surprisingly, Lamont slept soundly in Balthier's arms for nearly two hours. He remained a few paces behind his companions, allowing them to speak openly without fear of waking the child, but he soon found himself paying little attention to their conversation. Monty was too old to be held—he knew that. He would certainly be embarrassed upon waking, but the situation allowed little leeway, and Balthier remembered well enough the instinctive regression caused by losing a parent. He had been eighteen when his mother died, and spent several months afterwards wandering about on his own, wallowing in self-pity and reminiscing about days past, and it wasn't until Fran dragged him out of the gutter and nursed him back to health that he again felt like an adult. Monty would soon be back to his fiercely independent little self, but for now he just needed someone to take care of him.

They soon reached the Paramina Rift, a small plain of snow that surrounded the mountain top, and the sight of the meager dwelling beyond roused a new hope in all of them. Their supplies had run out and all had been soaked by the now steady snowfall, and the sparkling cathedral atop the mountain seemed to embody the very spirit of peace and compassion that it served to defend. While Vaan and Penelo leapt with joy at the sight, bounding past the others to play in the snow, Ashelia and Basch withheld their elation for fear of waking the prince Balthier carried behind them. Fran fell back to her partner's side, noting that Monty still slept, and commented in Vieran that only humans could rest so soundly. Indeed, he stirred only once, when Balthier slowed his pace to negotiate a patch of rocky terrain, but the pirate lulled him with a few absent-minded pats on the back and he quickly melted against him once more.

After a moment, the group caught up with Vaan and Penelo, who had run up ahead and bombarded each other with snowballs. Their excited chatter clamed in consideration of Monty, but they could no longer pass up the opportunity to tease Balthier for his grudging display of tenderness.

"Aw, you two are so cute!" Penelo goaded.

"Shut up," he whispered indignantly.

"Admit it, Balthier," said Vaan. "You want one."

"I most certainly do not! In case you haven't noticed, there are already far too many little parasites milling around me—any more, and Fran will have to start eating some."

"I don't mind this one so much," Fran added with a smirk.

Suddenly, Monty let out a startled yelp and accidentally jabbed his knee into Balthier's stomach. The pirate quickly dropped him to his feet and doubled over with a curse, while the others simply laughed at the pathetic sight.

"Sorry…" Monty said dizzily.

"What?" Balthier groaned in reply. "Afraid of heights?"

"Only when I'm not expecting them. H—how long was I…"

Balthier wearily continued on. "A few hours."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were out cold. Looked like you needed it."

"Next time just kick me or something."

"Gladly."

Monty trudged forward a bit through the snow, obviously relieved to see their destination so close. "Wow," he said. "I guess every mountain seems big until you climb it."

Penelo stepped up behind him. "And snow seems fun until you feel it."

"Let's just hurry," said Ashe. "I'm not made for this kind of weather."

"I don't think any Dalmascans are," Vaan replied.

With Monty awake, however, the last leg of the journey grew lively in a matter of moments, as the boy provided entertainment other than trying not to laugh at Fran's habit of shaking the snow off her feet with nearly every step.

"Hey, Basch?" he asked.

"Yes?" Basch answered.

"You speak Landisian, right?"

"Sort of. Not so well anymore."

"Do you know what 'darmuthe' means?"

He paused momentarily, the others listening in with eager ears. "…Uh…did Gabranth teach you that?"

"Not intentionally," said Monty.

"With good reason."

"I see."

"Isn't that what you used to call Azelas?" Ashe injected.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Basch replied.

"It's what Gabranth and Drace call Vayne when they think I'm not listening," added Monty.

Balthier snickered.

"…You and Gabranth don't really get along, do you?" Monty went on hesitantly.

"Not particularly," said Basch.

"I know it's none of my business, but if you don't mind, there's something I've always wanted to know…"

"What's that?"

"His real name." A minor paused filled the air as all present mentally noted the oddity of such a question before he explained his reasoning: "Judges are all given new names, right? I've tried everything to get it out of him, but he won't tell me."

"Then why should I?" asked Basch.

"Because you don't get along."

Basch hesitated. He didn't like to talk about Gabranth, neither in past nor present, but nevertheless he was occasionally overcome by memories of their younger years—barely five and beating each other up for fun. It appeared a common phase that most boys grew out of, but he could vividly remember being seventeen and punching his brother without any warning or reason—just because he felt like it. Noah had quickly fended him off with a sock to the stomach and laughed.

"Now that was just pathetic."

"I'll try harder next time."

And "next time" was five minutes later, and when they arrived home laughing and bleeding, their mother had scolded them and their father had asked who won, and they each insisted victory belonged to the other. Four years later, Landis was gone.

But still, he remembered the inexplicable fun of pissing his brother off and couldn't help but smirk at Monty's attempt to revive the tradition. "His name is Noah," he said plainly, trying not to let the mischievous light in Monty's eyes bring tears to his.

"Noah…" the boy repeated thoughtfully. "Hm. I'll have to spring it on him next time he gets too cocky."

Basch laughed. "Anything else?"

"Who started it?"

"I did, of course."

Then Penelo chimed in: "Have you ever met anyone who could tell you two apart?"

"Just one."

"Really?"

He nodded with a distant smile. "She never told me how, but she did once tell me it was easy."

"Did you ever switch?" Vaan asked.

"All the time," he answered. "And not always with each other's permission."

"I bet that made the army more trouble than it was worth," Balthier commented.

"You have no idea," Basch replied.

"I always thought girls were the ones eager for trouble…" said Ashe.

"You don't have any brothers?" Monty asked.

"No," she said. "I had a friend, though, who was like one to me."

"Was?"

"He died fighting in the war."

"Oh. Same for my older brothers." He turned his eyes toward the horizon, but quickly brightened the discussion once more. "Vayne says they caused more trouble than a herd of rabid chocobos."

"Oh, really?" asked Ashe.

"Once they stayed up all night putting extra coats of wax on the kitchen floor and used the chaos as an excuse to start a massive food fight over breakfast."

"Rasler and I once tied all of the doorknobs in the servants' quarters together at night so none of them could get out in the morning," Ashe mused.

"Reks and Vaan herded stray dogs into the Sandsea Tavern after hours," said Penelo. "When the owner tried to clear them out, they stampeded."

"Hey," said Vaan, "you're the one who dared us to do it!"

"What's so funny, Basch," Ashe asked, noting his dismal attempt to suppress his laughter.

"You're all amateurs," he replied. "Don't think I'm going to give you any ideas, though."

Ashe actually cracked a smile at this.

"Alright, man!" Vaan exclaimed. "You got a smile out of her!"

"All in a good day's work," Basch admitted.

"Hey," said Ashe, "don't change the subject."

Penelo giggled. "You should play with us, Ashe."

"Yeah," Vaan agreed. "Snow beats sand any day."

"Thanks, but no thanks," the princess replied. "I'd just like to dry off."

"But you've hardly gotten wet yet!" Penelo pressed.

"Maybe compared to you."

"Come on!" said Vaan. "You can dry off when we get there. It's fun!"

"I didn't walk all this way to have fun."

Vaan stopped, the others waiting with him, all eager to get Ashelia to smile again. "Aw, where's your Dalmascan spirit?" he asked with a smile. "You've gotta let yourself go once in a while."

"Maybe next time I get kidnapped," she obliged with somewhat stern sarcasm.

Suddenly, a large snowball thumped into the back of her head, splitting on impact and dripping chilling rivulets of ice down her spine. She spun on her heel to face the attacker, finding poor, wide-eyed, terrified Lamont staring back. She blinked in shock, and he wordlessly pointed to Balthier, who stood beside him with another snowball at the ready.

"Having fun yet?" the pirate asked.

Ashe scowled. "Basch, are you just going to let him—"

A second snowball splattered against her back, eliciting from her a quick yelp, and she turned to see that Basch, too, had another ready to fly.

"Aren't you the one always telling me you don't need a babysitter?" he asked with a smirk.

Ashe clearly had a scathing reply ready, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Balthier unleashed his second strike, hitting her square in the shoulder. She turned again with a "Hey!" only to be hit once more by Basch.

"Ooh," Penelo cooed. "It's war now."

"How about a duel?" Fran suggested.

"A duel?" Ashe asked in reply, trying hard to mask her bemusement with a sour expression.

"Yeah," said Vaan. "Winner gets the right to pelt you with snow for the rest of the trip."

"A truly noble prize," she groaned.

"I elect Monty as mediator!" Penelo squealed.

Monty just laughed.

"Come on, brat," Balthier said cockily. "Let's show the old man how it's done."

"Don't kid yourself, junior," Basch jeered in return.

"Alright, gentlemen," Monty began with a mischievous smirk. "Shake hands and take seven paces."

Balthier and Basch obliged, while Vaan and Penelo sat on either side of Ashe to watch. Standing between the two men, Monty scooped up a handful of snow.

"Ready your weapons," he instructed, and they followed his example. "On my mark…" He held the snowball high, in traditional Archadian fashion. Were this a typical Archadian duel, they would strike when he dropped it, but seeing as how they were all alone on a snowy mountain with a rather disgruntled princess, Monty instead launched the snow ahead, directly toward the princess in question. Having exchanged winks as they readied, Basch and Balthier, too, threw their "weapons" at Ashe, and Vaan and Penelo, wise to the ambush from the moment Monty was appointed mediator, pelted her from the sides. In the hail of white, the throwing seemed to continue steadily, for even as one snowball was flung, its maker would be in the process of scooping up another to be used on whoever stood closest.

The chaos halted, however, when an unfamiliar voice could be heard laughing with them. Indeed, their own laughter would normally have been enough to drown out such interruptions, but this voice sounded far from normal. It was a joyous, musical laugh—low and throaty, yet with a girlish squeal throughout that lent a youthful air to the sound as a whole. As the snow cleared, they soon recognized it as belonging to Ashe.

She sat in the snow where she had fallen in the attack, leaning back on one wrist, knees together and feet wide apart, giggling uncontrollably as she wiped the snow from her face and hair. All stood rapt in wonder, watching her with mystified half-smiles. With Basch and Balthier too dumbfounded to act on their success, Penelo stepped forward and offered her hand to the princess, pulling her from the snowdrift.

Even on her feet, Ashe released a few uncontrollable giggles, drawing a hand to her mouth to silence them and continuing on ahead without a word. Vaan turned to Basch and Balthier with a grin.

"Good work!"


	22. Chapter 21

_XXI._

Ashe woke suddenly, sitting straight up and quickly taking in her surroundings. In only a second she collected her thoughts and recalled some vague details of the nightmare that had woken her, but it seemed an hour in her sleepy daze, and she drew her hands to her face exhaustedly in a vain attempt to revive her strained senses. A flimsy tent shielded her from the crisp, snowy wind, and a fire crackled at its center, radiating heat and sending streams of smoke adrift through the hole cut in the roof. Piled around her sat many woven blankets and tapestries, courtesy of the pacifist villagers who maintained the refugee settlement at the summit of Mount Bur-Omisace.

She and her cortege had arrived some time ago—yesterday, she thought, assuming she hadn't slept too awfully long—and the villagers had offered them the same accommodations they offered all others who came their way, never asking why they had come or why they did not go elsewhere. The Gran Kiltias had been meditating in the temple and Prince Al-Mid had not yet arrived, so they resigned to rest for the night—a necessity that all had been neglecting as of late. Yet she hadn't slept well, and now woke out of unpleasantness only to find more.

"Rise and shine, Princess."

She ran her hands through her hair, suppressing a groan and resisting the urge to glare at Balthier across the fire.

"Shut up," she said.

"Well," he scoffed in reply, "you won't make much of an alliance with that attitude."

She groaned inwardly, but could not fight the relief that overcame her as reality took the place of her dreams. Dimness surrounded them, but through the smoke hole she could see light behind the thick clouds overhead, and knew that morning had likely come and gone, but the warmth of the fire soothed her, stirring in her a desire for still more sleep. Balthier's eyes seemed to intensify before the blaze, reflecting the flames in sparkling flecks of gold and auburn, while hers cooled in the contrast, a vibrant, turbulent blue against the livid orange that lit them. At once she lost her will to sleep, and spoke in a tone far harsher than she intended:

"Where is everyone?"

"Basch took the kids out for a while," he answered with a shrug.

"Out?" she pressed.

And he smiled. "'For the preservation of communal sanity,' in exact words. He asked me to look after you."

She stared at him disbelievingly. "Basch entrusted my safety to you?"

"It's not my fault everyone seems to think I'm good at this sort of thing," he retorted.

"I'm perfectly fine on my own, thank you."

"He said you'd say that."

"Oh, shut it."

"He said you'd say that, too. Half an Archadian fleet is right above us, Princess. For now, at least, you _do_ need a babysitter."

"Where's Fran?"

"Good question." She rolled her eyes, and he continued: "…What were you dreaming about?"

"…What?"

"You looked upset."

"Did I say anything?"

"No, but I wasn't about to wake you—you probably would have dismembered me."

"Why should you care about what I dream?"

"I'm just curious. There's no need to get royal about it."

She sighed, turning her eyes to the floor uncomfortably, and at last spoke: "…What did you do?"

"What?" he asked.

"After she died."

"That must have been some dream."

And now she sneered, her confidence quickly returning. "Don't sound so flattered. Mostly I just dream about freedom and Dalmasca."

"Freedom _for_ Dalmasca or freedom _from _Dalmasca?"

"You tell me."

"If I could, I wouldn't have asked you."

She shifted with a smirk and began combing her fingers through her hair. "Then you're actually admitting that there's something you don't know?"

He returned the expression. "You started it."

"So, what did you do?"

"Well, I ran away. What else? I couldn't stand seeing him like that, so I ran—free at last. All that running and I got nowhere."

"You say that like it's all you've ever done."

"Hey," he countered, "you're the one who faked suicide."

"Azelas came up with that," she replied. "And it worked, didn't it?"

"A little too well, I think. What's that got to do with your dream?"

"I don't know. I don't remember all of it."

"What do you remember?"

"The war was over. Lamont was with his brother. Things were better."

"Good."

"And it was terrifying."

"Bad."

She sighed. "How is it that sometimes you're so easily entertained and others you find everything boring?"

He smiled. "How is it that sometimes you're so easily irritated and others you find everything interesting?"

She groaned.

"Really," he went on, "you should see it coming by now."

"I should," she agreed. "But I suppose I've never thanked you properly. This is far from safe work, and it's not as though it's been worth your while. I do mean to pay you eventually, though. It's just that the world is so difficult right now, and I have so many other things to consider, and…"

"And?"

"I didn't like you because you're Archadian."

He smiled again. "I'm glad."

"What?"

"_Didn't_. That's past tense, right?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

"What did they call you?"

"What?"

"As a Judge."

"Nothing I'd repeat in front of a lady."

She glanced off to the side and pressed her lips together to hide a smile, though Balthier seemed to see right through the attempt.

"Maybe if you'd let yourself laugh more often," he suggested, "you wouldn't be so pissed off all the time."

"Thank you, _Vaan_," she growled in reply, getting a small laugh out of him. "Forgive me for saying so, but I just have a hard time imagining you as a Judge."

"I did, too."

"Do you know Basch's brother?"

Now he seemed to sober some, though he did not hesitate in his answer. "To an extent."

"What is he like?" she pressed, turning her eyes off to the side warily.

"You don't want to know that."

"I asked, didn't I?"

He stared at her for a moment, unsure if she truly meant it, but decided not to argue. "He's exactly like Basch." She replied with an expectant glare, taking this as a poor show of humor and an insult to her bodyguard, almost demanding an apology, but he did not waver in his opinion, simply shrugging and offering the best explanation he could: "It's true. Of course, I haven't seen him in four years. I suppose people can change."

"And if they change in one way," she replied, "does that mean they can change back?"

"Look," Balthier all but groaned. "The man lost everything once; can't you forgive him for not wanting to lose it again?"

She folded her arms and glowered at him through the waning flames. "I've had a bit of trouble forgiving any of the Imperials after what they did to Nabudis."

"Nabudis was an accident."

The answer came so suddenly that she had to pause to confirm that she had in fact heard it and not just imagined it. For a moment her eyes softened, giving way to the strangely misplaced hope that she so resented for its ability to weaken her, and she asked quietly, accusingly, "…What do you mean?"

"One of the old bastard's experiments," he explained, letting his gaze drift to the smoldering coals before him. "He and Vayne watched aboard the flagship of the Fourth Fleet—probably got quite a kick out of it."

"Experimenting with nethicite?"

"Well, they certainly didn't know it was _that_ powerful. They had Zecht wipe out his own troops, too."

"Zecht?" she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably. "The Judge who led the attack. Cid told him what to look for and how to use it—for the 'good of posterity,' of course."

"Cid knows how to use it?"

"He's not going to tell you."

Her eyes seemed to sharpen, though she didn't miss a beat. "What about you?"

"You stand a better chance than I do," he growled.

"I mean do you know how to use it?"

"No." A glare, and then: "Honestly. No."

"Then what about Zecht?"

"Zecht is dead. And don't ask about Vayne."

Ashe paused then, staring first at Balthier and then slowly down into the embers at the base of the fire, a sick realization hitting her no matter how she tried to beat it back.

"You see it now, don't you?" Balthier asked. "It comes out of nowhere, I know, but once you start thinking about it, you can't stop. Well, that is to say you _can_, but there's only one way to do that."

She dazedly gripped the small chunk of nethicite in her pocket. "…Temptation," she whispered sadly.

Seeing that even in the face of the truth she felt the power necessary, Balthier released a sigh and met her eyes. "…The choice is yours to make, but—please don't give your heart to a stone. You're too strong for that, Princess."

A few faint crunches sounded outside—footsteps in the snow—and Monty drew open the tent's entryway, letting a hazy strip of pale blue light race up the opposite wall.

"Balthier—" he began before noticing Ashelia and smiling. "Oh, good! You're awake."

"Didn't I tell you I'd have her up in time?" Balthier replied.

"I wasn't entirely confident in your methods," the boy quipped. "Fran could use your help with the repairs."

Balthier rolled his eyes. "I'm sure she could better use your help."

"I've got a war to stop."

"…Brat," he mumbled, rising to his feet. He failed to acknowledge the princess, but scruffed Monty's hair on his way out of the tent.

Ashe rolled to her knees and loosened her hair from behind her ears, and Lamont stepped closer, regarding her with a shy smile.

"Still cold?" he asked.

"I'll be alright," she answered.

"I'm sorry we ambushed you."

She smiled a little and blushed. "Don't be."

"You're really beautiful when you laugh."

She paused then, staring at him with mild shock, and he nervously turned his eyes away.

"Sorry. Just thought you should know."

And now she blinked a few times, willing herself to thank him, but unable to find the words.

"Anyway," he continued, "the Gran Kiltias is ready to see us now."

"Right," she said at last, shaking her head as though it would do her any good, and then rising to follow him outside.

She, much like the others, had been exhausted upon their arrival and too bent on completing their mission to pay much heed to their surroundings, but Ashe now found the small village quite peaceful and welcoming, and at last managed to allay her fears, if only temporarily. Many of the war's victims busied themselves in the settlement, as did many clergymen and a fair number of children. Crude structures stood at the edges of the area, marking its borders, but the majority of the dwellings within the camp proved little more than thin-skinned tents, their entrances flapping in the frigid breeze.

Monty seemed quite accustomed to the snow, but she had not seen it since her earliest years, and never in such amounts as she saw now. Indeed, her only experience with snow, be it falling or already fallen, had been in the days that she spent in Nabradia, a guest in Rasler's household while their parents discussed matters too complicated—and boring—to concern children. But now her thoughts came to a brief standstill, slowly starting back up as she recalled that she had seen snow only three years past, and all of the five years preceding that. Why should she not consider the years in which she and Rasler were married when looking back on her past? The question puzzled her deeply, and the sudden distress on her face proved not well-masked enough to avoid catching Monty's attention.

"Not a lot of snow in Dalmasca?" he asked.

"No," she answered distantly. "We got some each winter in Nabradia, but I never had much time to enjoy it."

"That's too bad."

Sensing his uneasiness and fearing that her disposition might continue to worsen it, she raised her head a bit higher, attempting to look less vulnerable, and spoke awkwardly: "Lamont…I was just wondering…did you know Balthier back when he was a Judge?"

He smiled slightly, glad for the break. "Of course. He was one of the good ones. He used to have drinking contests with Zecht and Gabranth all the time."

"Why am I not surprised?" Ashe mused.

"Don't worry; he always lost."

"Ah."

The realization of the question's original intent came to him after a moment's thought, and he quickly followed up: "…Oh! No, no—you can trust him. He didn't like the Judiciary."

"No, it's not that," she assured him. "I just…I suppose I'm more concerned with his family."

"What?" Monty asked. "His father? Most of the stuff people say about him isn't really true."

"Actually, I was kind of wondering about his mother."

"Oh. S—she was nice."

"Nice?"

"She…Well, she really loved Cid."

"Did he love her?"

"Sometimes."

"I see."

They passed the village limits and proceeded up a path cleared of snow that led to a modestly sized stone cathedral several yards away, and for a moment Ashelia felt the passing of the village activity to blame for the sudden silence. Upon glancing at Lamont, however, she found a mildly troubled look on his face—a subtle softening of his countenance—and spoke again: "You don't like to talk about it?"

"It's alright," he said. "She just took really good care of me. I don't think she knew how not to love."

"Hm." She had no idea what to say, and deeply regretting even bringing it up, and therefore she simply changed the subject. "Sounds like Basch."

"No kidding," Monty replied. "Looking after you, putting up with Balthier, helping the Rozarrians…"

At this, she did a quick double take, finding that she had indeed heard him correctly. "…What?"

"Didn't Balthier tell you?" he asked casually.

"I guess not," she answered.

"We went down to help Al-Mid and his cortege," Monty explained. "They stole an Archadian ship and crash-landed it about a mile downhill."

She shot him a look of stern curiosity, starting carefully up the icy steps to the church. "He didn't tell me anything about that…"

"Really?" Monty replied, deftly taking her hand to stabilize her. "He volunteered to stay with you till we got back."

Ashe resisted a childish huff. "He told me Basch asked him to—something about 'the preservation of communal sanity.'"

"Oh, that part's true. But Basch wanted to wake you up. Just be glad Balthier didn't carry you."

"Good point. I just can't believe he trusted a pirate with me."

"It took some convincing."

"Balthier's good at that."

"From me, I mean."

At this, she looked on him with bewildered eyes for a moment, but she soon found nothing worth complaining about and continued. "Oh."

He smiled.

"Are you sure Al-Mid doesn't want to rest a bit before we begin?" she asked.

Monty nodded. "I told him to take it easy, but it's no use. He's crashed a few ships in his day. He can handle it."

"I hope that's a good thing," Ashe replied quietly, getting a small smile out of Monty.

They came to a stop at the heavy wooden doors, stomping their feet on the stonework before them to shake the snow from their boots.

"Have you ever really dealt with Rozarrians before?" he went on.

"Not directly," she said. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Well…they're very—_friendly_."

"Oh, really?"

"The emperor has two daughters about my age…"

"Ahhh…"

He cast a slow glance on her, more uncertain than shy. "And Al-Mid is the closest to your age who's not married yet, so…"

She nodded. "Right. Thanks for the warning."


	23. Chapter 22

_XXII._

Beyond the high-paneled cathedral doors, they found a silent stone chamber bedecked with rugs and tapestries that seemed to ward off the cold and cast a warm, gentle glow on them. Ashe felt somehow safer, for although she had gone no farther from the Imperial fleet that kept watch above, the sturdy roof of the solid building—a rarity on the mountain—blocked them from her view, allowing her the comfort of knowing that they could not see her in the least, not even as an indistinguishable speck among the other specks from their great heights.

Monty led her across the foyer and into the great hall that served as the gathering area of the church, where there stood many polished wooden pews and items of religious significance—a large altar at the front, several scrolled iron racks of lit candles at the sides, columns supporting the roof that bore on them sacred inscriptions. Holy symbols had been engraved on the walls of the room as well, lit gently by the light of hundreds of candles, and the height of the ceiling seemed all the higher when lit by the iron chandeliers that hung gracefully still overhead. Ashe knew the extent of Archadia's luxury in all things, and therefore knew that Monty likely found the building distinctly lacking in comparison to those of his homeland, causing her a considerable amount of shock when he complimented the old church.

"They do seem very dedicated to God," she replied.

"It's kind of strange," he went on. "It's so cold out here, but they know how to make everything feel so warm…"

"Perhaps it's just that they have fewer worries," she suggested.

"Hm."

He said nothing more, but she could read his sentiment clearly, for she felt it just the same: they had nothing to fear because they had nothing at all. Her people could not live such lives, and neither could his.

The Gran Kiltias awaited them in the back room, a quaint, but lovely chamber at the far end of the cathedral, sectioned off by locking doors and windows, but by no means cramped. Several towering windows lined the back wall of the room, revealing the expanse of mountains beyond, for the church sat at the very edge of a great chasm, at the distant bottom of which flowed an icy river. The extreme height and unsettling closeness to the perilous ledge at first sent an uncomfortable chill down Ashe's spine, but the warmth with which the Gran Kiltias greeted her soon forced the thought from her mind.

He was old—withered, but not lacking in spirit—and received them graciously, obviously eager to bring peace to a world in which he had little stock. He did not at all take his position lightly, but he knew himself to be the only one present who did not represent a political entity—he served on behalf of the faithful, and indeed on behalf of the unfaithful, for he stood for peace and had neither the ability to grant it nor any demands to make in exchange for it. Beside him stood the final piece of their political puzzle, a young man with thick black hair and dark olive skin, who certainly did not exude the same benevolence as the Gran Kiltias, but nevertheless greeted Monty with a kind smile and a curvaceous Rozarrian accent:

"Ah, my little emperor-in-waiting! It's good to see you still in one piece."

"I do what I can," the boy replied with a smile as he gestured to Ashe. "This is Princess Ashelia."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said amiably, extending her hand.

Rather than shake it, he took it in both of his and knelt before her with far more extravagance than she felt her due. "Ah, I see it is true what they say—stunning is Dalmasca's desert bloom!" He kissed her hand and gave her an intense look of admiration. "Any treaty you have to offer, I shall be happy to sign."

"Oh, grow up," Monty groaned.

"Look who's talking!" he snapped, rising back to his feet.

"This is Al-Mid," Monty went on, "last in line for the throne of Rozarria."

"You're really a member of the royal family?" Ashelia asked disbelievingly.

"One of very, very many, I'm afraid," Al-Mid replied. "And due to past incidences that I may or may not have taken part in, even my little sisters out-rank me—" He turned to Monty. "—and by the way, they are both in the market for husbands…"

"No, thanks," the boy said quickly. "We've got quite a bit to accomplish—best not waste time."

"Ah," the Gran Kiltias added with a warm smile, "what a relief to see such a sense of duty in one so young…"

"Yes," said Al-Mid, "making the rest of us look bad."

Monty smiled as well. "Not intentionally, I assure you."

"We could do this later if you'd like some time to settle in," Ashe told Al-Mid. "I understand you've suffered a trying arrival."

"For some men, yes," he answered profligately, "but I have grown accustomed to such difficulties—you could even say I crave them!"

Trying to mute the look of disgust on her face, she nodded slowly. "Alright then."

"So where to begin?" the Gran Kiltias continued. "There are many issues at hand, but most cannot be dealt with until though that have instigated them are laid to rest."

"For the moment," Monty agreed, "it looks as though the war is our biggest problem. We can't hope to convince our countries to work out their differences until we're all certain no violence will come of it."

"But none of us have the power to control that," Ashe added.

Al-Mid scoffed at this, speaking of his ability to change his father's mind and charm even the most determined of adversaries into agreement (a claim that she seriously doubted), and without a second thought the meeting had begun, though the discussion seemed to avert topics of importance for several minutes. The Gran Kiltias offered only a few nudging suggestions, but it fast became apparent that none of the three would make any attempt to raise arguments out of each other, though Al-Mid kept the atmosphere relatively light with his colorful remarks.

Ashe studied him while he spoke, as this seemed the most effective way to elude his knowledge of her examination. His age seemed to alarm her more than his demeanor, especially given the circumstances, for he appeared younger than Balthier, she thought, but older than Vaan. She had never considered herself old, though she often felt it as of late, but finding herself older than both of those she would treat with set an odd rattling in her nerves that seemed to reverberate with every word spoken. Oddly enough, though, she felt that her age did not burden her with assumptions of responsibility, as these seemed to be placed squarely on Monty, who led the conversation with the fluidity of one three times his age and kept his priorities at the forefront without coming across in the least bit forceful.

After what seemed a long while, the topic of power came back up, leading them back on track, much to the relief of Monty and the Gran Kiltias, though Ashe feared what might become of this. Her fears proved well-founded, for the Gran Kiltias soon resolved the subtle disagreement in the exact manner she had hoped he wouldn't:

"This is not a matter of weakness—there should be no cause for offense. Here we have three prominent players in this war, but the facts of the matter are that Al-Mid, while steeped in influence, lacks power, and Lamont, though the heir to an empire, is a prince no longer. If any leading steps are to be taken in the way of peace, they must begin with the Lady Ashelia, heir to Dalmasca by blood, and heir to Nabradia by marriage."

Al-Mid smiled. "Speaking of marriage—"

"Let's not," said Monty.

"My inheritance is of little use without proof that I am entitled to it," Ashe insisted. "I feel fairly certain that my people will accept me without much convincing, but I need Lord Vayne's recognition if I am to accomplish anything."

"And you cannot hope to attain it given the hatred your citizens hold for him," the Gran Kiltias replied.

"Much of the Resistance respects me," she explained, "but if I tell them to suddenly forgive Archadia, I can't say for certain they would even consider it."

"Even if they did," added Monty, "Vayne wouldn't believe it for a second. That's the problem with being powerful—it makes you a target. At the very least, he won't release Dalmasca without compensation."

"An alliance…" Ashe said quietly.

Monty shrugged. "You know it's the only way."

"My people won't stand for it."

"Neither will mine. Luckily, our countries have a common fear."

"…Rozarria."

Al-Mid smiled. "Always glad to be of service."

"In this case," said Monty, "we may just need you to sit back and do nothing."

"The conquered lands make it too chancy for Rozarria to risk open war on Archadia," Al-Mid insisted. "If Lord Vayne were to give them up, our powers would be practically equal."

"That's the problem," said Ashe. "If Archadia releases Dalmasca, can we trust Rozarria to stay away from it?"

"That would depend…" Al-Mid answered slowly. "I cannot say for sure what my father would do, but I doubt he would turn hostile on a country he could just as easily ally with."

"Vayne will see that coming," said Monty.

"If Archadia offered Dalmasca protection from Rozarria," said Ashe, "I would agree not to ally with them."

"My father wouldn't take that well," replied Al-Mid, "but he wouldn't be stupid enough to attack."

"But I would also need immigration rights to Nabradia," Ashe went on, "and I have nothing to offer in return for it."

Monty shook his head. "If you gave the Nabradians a choice between freedom and occupation, there's no way you'd be able to feed and house them all."

"I can't just abandon them," Ashe insisted. "I barely hold their loyalty as it is."

"I know," Monty conceded, "but there's no way Vayne will just hand over two countries he's worked so hard to conquer."

"You forget the people of Landis," the Gran Kiltias injected. "They may not owe allegiance to any of your lands, but to exclude them now would surely earn each of you their disdain."

"They were the first to be conquered," said Al-Mid. "They have no one to lead them. Besides, they've already settled into Archadian culture."

"They have no voice in this," Monty replied. "I didn't really think about that…"

"But I don't see what we can do for them," added Ashe. "If they were to be liberated, they'd have no government to speak of. They'd be better off under Vayne's rule."

Al-Mid smirked. "Try telling them that."

"Maybe we're going about this all wrong…" Monty continued, clearly racking his brain. "With all due respect, the three of us are practically powerless. We have to get the emperors involved—and they have to like it."

At this, Al-Mid let out a laugh. "My father would sooner war with Vayne than speak with him. And I dare say you underestimate your brother's stubbornness."

"I know," said Monty, "but if we can just get them to recognize Ashelia as rightful royalty—"

"They'll kill her and fight over her land." A pause ensued, and Al-Mid looked to Ashe apologetically. "Sorry."

"It's true," she replied.

"The point is," he went on, "Vayne has no reason to recognize her, and he won't unless she gains some leverage to use against him."

"That would just provoke him," Monty insisted.

"Look," Al-Mid explained, tiring not in the least. "Let us suppose we approach the Empire with a peaceful resolution. The late Emperor Gramis would have lent us his ear, but we are dealing with Vayne. Should the princess return, he would claim her an imposter—all to tempt the Resistance into battle. My father would jump on such an opportunity—he would say he's defending the occupied, or some such nonsense—and then it would be all-out war between our lands. Now, the occupied territories might join Rozarria while the chance is upon them, or they could just well band together into their own Empire under Lady Ashelia. Either way, the people of Ivalice will rip each other to shreds. Vayne wants this war—that much is certain. And as our ill luck would have it, the man is a military genius."

Ashe hung her head with a sigh. "To reveal myself now would imperil us all. Perhaps I was better off in hiding."

"The past cannot be changed," said the Gran Kiltias. "Lord Vayne knows you live, and it is only a matter of time before he exposes you by one method or another. It appears this war is inevitable; all we can do now is see that the fewest possible lives are lost in its course."

"You mean we have to turn everyone against Archadia…" Monty concluded softly.

"It seems to be the only way," answered Al-Mid.

"But…" Ashe braced herself momentarily, unsure of her sentiment's appropriateness. "Mass rebellion through the occupied territories…on top of Rozarrian invasion? Must we really be so harsh?"

"I thought Archadia took everything from you," Al-Mid replied. "Most in your position have no definition of 'harsh' when it comes to the Empire."

"I just don't believe in using unnecessary force," she defended.

"Unnecessary?" he scoffed. "Clearly you do not know the Solidors!"

Monty cringed, clenching his jaw as Al-Mid went on:

"You may have taken down the Eighth Fleet, but that was no more than a drop in the bucket! According to our latest reports, the Western Armada prepares for war, under Vayne's command, no less, and the newly formed Twelfth Fleet has already been deployed. The Imperial First Fleet stands in waiting; they'll be underway as soon as the _Odin's _refit is complete. The Fourth Fleet is right above us, of course, thanks to His Itsy-Bitsy Excellency—" Lamont rolled his eyes. "—and still there is more: the Second Kerwon Expeditionary Force is being called in to replace the missing Eighth, so there will be no gaps. The largest force ever seen!"

"And then the nethicite," Ashe added distantly.

"We will need every bit of force at our disposal to beat Emperor Vayne into submission," Al-Mid insisted.

Ashe folded her arms protectively, resting her eyes on Monty, who stood so forlornly before her. It took no more than a moment's glance to set her resolve in place, and, gritting her teeth bitterly and shaking her head, she spoke up: "No."

"No?" Al-Mid asked.

"I won't lead my people to war until every other path has been taken."

"Princess—"

"We've been through enough in the last decade," she stated firmly. "I'd be failing them if I simply pushed them back into battle."

The Gran Kiltias beamed with pride at this, and Monty gave her a thankful gaze, but Al-Mid seemed utterly speechless.

"There are really only three people to concern ourselves with, right?" she continued. "The emperors and Marquis Ondore. They're both waiting for him to attack. If we convince all three of them there will be no attack, they may be willing to meet."

"They are always welcome here," the Gran Kiltias added with a nod.

"I know if I run just a few of these scenarios by the marquis, he will reconsider," she explained. "All you two would have to do is soften the emperors up a bit—get them to think it over."

"Convince them a treaty is the smart way out," Monty stepped in.

"Or at the very least," said Al-Mid, "the safe way." He ran a hand through his hair and smiled slightly, eying the princess with admiration. "I must say, I didn't think you had it in you."

"He doesn't think anybody has it in them," Monty added.

"So…" Al-Mid went on. "I'll deal with my father, Lamont will deal with his brother, and our dear lady will deal with her uncle. But what are we to do from there? Just cooling their tempers will not be enough."

"We can't plan that far ahead," said Monty. "There's no telling how effective any of us will be."

"I don't even know where the marquis is," Ashe added, "much less how willing he'll be to listen should I find him."

"Then shall we reconvene?" asked Al-Mid. "Some time from now, of course. I imagine he won't be easy to track down."

"I would appreciate it," said Ashe. "But where would we go? It was difficult enough getting here without being captured."

"No kidding!" said Al-Mid. "Why don't you come to Rozarria? I'm sure a native of the desert will find our weather far more comfortable than this smothering white misery."

"Thanks for your concern, but I doubt your people would welcome Lamont."

"And the same could be said of Dalmasca, I suppose."

"And Nabradia and Landis."

"And Bhujerba is now filled with Imperials—enough to run us both down easily."

At last Monty spoke up: "How about Archades?"

The suggestion earned him two disbelieving looks of shock, and Al-Mid at last smiled and said, plainly, "Cute."

"Lamont," Ashelia added, "you know that would be suicide."

He shook his head, hope beaming in his tone. "Not in the city—the port at Balfonheim, about a mile east. Most of the navy is stationed at the western border."

"'Most' is still risky," Ashe insisted.

"Balfonheim is overrun with pirates," he replied.

"You're just full of fantastic ideas, aren't you," Al-Mid groaned.

"No, really," the boy went on, fighting his insufferable cuteness. "It's…it's hard to explain. They pay a percentage of their—'profits' to Vayne, and he pretends they aren't there."

"Vayne is being bribed by pirates?" the princess asked doubtfully.

"He likes having friends in low places. The money funds Doctor Cid's research, and Draklor is supplied through the port."

"Your brother can have anything he wishes at a moment's notice," said Al-Mid, "and you expect us to believe he wastes his time with criminals?"

"Father was never too fond of the science department," Monty explained. "And I've heard you're known to waste your time with criminals as well."

"Hey, hey!" he replied. "There is no proof that I was involved in that—brilliant debacle."

"Besides," said Monty, "getting to Balfonheim will be far less dangerous than getting here."

"For me, perhaps," Al-Mid replied, "but surely you would not put the life of our fair princess in peril."

Monty turned to Ashe. "Balthier can get you there."

"I figured."

"Tell him I'll pay for it—no way he'd turn down the opportunity to snub royalty."

"No kidding. But there's no telling how safe we'll be once we get there. There may be no soldiers at our heels, but if it's truly overrun, who's to say we won't at the very least have to suffer eavesdroppers?"

"Have you ever heard of Reddas Montblanc?"

"Should I have?"

Al-Mid's eyes lit, and he spoke with a smile. "The Pirate King?"

"That's him," said Lamont. "He'll keep us safe. He can't afford not to."

It seemed absurd, but little about this journey didn't, so, after a bit more debate, the three agreed. They thanked the Gran Kiltias for his service, who in turn thanked them for their dedication to peace, and they headed out of the great cathedral together, an almost delightfully odd trio, given the status of their countries. One of Al-Mid's bodyguards met them at the exit, reporting that the repairs to the stolen ship were nearly completed, but Fran and the kids had not yet finished testing their work for safety.

"I'll go with you," Monty offered. "Make sure they don't kill themselves."

"And let the lady walk herself home?" Al-Mid replied.

"It's not far," Ashe assured him. "Good luck."

"To you as well," Al-Mid answered upon receiving a glare of warning from Lamont.

With that, Ashe began the short trek back to the village, her mind reeling, but somehow at ease. There was much still to be done, but she had taken a great step forward and now anticipated almost joyously the time when she could continue on with it. The silence of the snow relaxed her further, and she bent to scoop some into her hands, mashing it into a ball and eating it as she walked, her steps strangely lighter.

Before reaching the settlement, Ashe spotted a figure at the edge of a nearby ravine, recognizing it as Balthier. Her first instinct told her to ignore him, that allowing him to distract her would only result in another lecture on her use of the Midlight Shard, but even with this threat looming over her, there remained something in holding his attention—even in merely hearing him speak—that she found invigorating, and she soon found herself veering off her path and nearing him.

He did not hear her coming, his back turned to her, his eyes trained on the steep walls of the canyon before him as he leaned against the wooden railing that ran along its nearest edge. Intentionally weighting her footsteps so as to lend a louder crunch to the snow, she figured that he did in fact hear her as she approached, but likely craved solitude and thus ignored her. However, he had never afforded her such a privilege, and she decided in an instant to return the favor.

"The repairs are done, I hope," she said, perhaps a bit more sternly than she had intended.

He glanced over his shoulder. "As done as they'll ever be," he replied casually. "Your meeting?"

"Same." Stepping up beside him, she noticed that his hands hung over the railing, clasped together while his elbows supported his weight. Running her eyes along the depth of the ravine below them, she spoke again: "Don't lean on that. You make me nervous…"

And yet now her words slowed, as he obediently pushed off the railing, but let his hands part in doing so, revealing that he held her wedding ring. Her eyes focused on it much in the way they so often focused on the Midlight Shard, and he regarded her almost suspiciously, holding the ring up as though to grant her a better view.

"I would've thought a royal wedding ring to be far more impressive than this," he remarked, looking over the small band with passing interest.

"Aren't you the one who said value is relative?" she asked back, breaking her gaze and folding her arms.

"Well," he said, "he could've at least given you a diamond."

"We didn't know we were getting married until a week before it happened."

"How romantic."

"Will you quit making fun of it!?" she snapped. "He's dead—show a little respect."

Now he gripped the ring in his fist, meeting her eyes once more and deliberately thickening his tone. "You're the one constantly playing heart-broken widow over a man you didn't even love."

She uncrossed her arms and balled her freezing fingers into fists. "I loved Rasler more than a pirate like you could ever imagine!"

"I don't mean to be entirely lewd," he replied, "but usually when a husband and wife love each other, they sleep together."

This elicited a gasp of shock, as he had expected it to, but much to his surprise the princess appeared more defensive than angry.

"W—we slept together!" she insisted.

He rolled his eyes. "Literally, I'm sure."

Now the anger arrived: "You filthy piece of—"

"Six years of marriage and no children. I understand, though. I wouldn't mind marrying Fran, but there are some things that just can't be done."

Ashe glowered at him, unable to think of any valid response. He was right. They had tried once, realizing the need for an heir, but didn't make it past kissing, which proved painfully awkward and turned into a fit of laughter followed by an all-out pillow fight. They had made a deal—they'd get around to it once the war ended. As much as she hated to admit it, their marriage had been nothing more than an extended playdate.

"This is absolutely none of your business!" she growled.

"Since when have I let that stop me?" he shot back. "I just needed a little clarification."

"Clarification?"

"On what you think you'll achieve through all of this nonsense. Only two things drive people to be as cold as you, Highness: love and guilt."

She folded her arms once more, gripping herself as though it provided her some security against this onslaught. "He went to Nabudis of his own volition," she said, the bitterness draining from her tone. "I told him not to."

"But you let him, anyway," Balthier replied.

"And _I'm_ the one who's cold…"

At this, he at last dropped his offensive a notch, amazed by the level of inappropriateness she had allowed him to reach and not wanting to hurt her feelings. "You know," he went on, his voice turning more genuine in expression, "I almost wish you did love him. This isn't about justice for you, Princess; it's about revenge."

"…So what if it is?" she asked. "The Empire is certainly deserving."

"A lot of people are deserving, but that doesn't give you the right to deal out punishment as you see fit."

"Look. Maybe I didn't love him the way I should have, but he was my best friend. It wasn't a sham."

His eyes softened then, though hers remained trained on the steep cascade of snow that broke in sheets down the rock walls of the valley below. Briefly, he wondered what exactly had made her feel so unsuccessful as a wife—she didn't love him, she couldn't stop him from fighting, she bore him no children—there seemed no shortage of obvious reasons for guilt, but he suspected a reason less explainable than that. By his measure, her greatest failure came in her unhappiness within the marriage. Perhaps, he speculated, she felt as though she didn't deserve it.

Finding himself unhappy thinking such things, he forced the thoughts from his mind and held the ring out to her. "Throw it away."

She studied him for a moment, her eyes glancing first at him, then at the ring, and then back to him. "…What?"

He seized her hand and placed the ring in it, forcing her fingers to curl around it. "Go on. Toss it."

"No."

Now placing both hands on her hesitant fist and squeezing gently, he guided it out over the railing to the edge of the rock chasm. "You need to let go of all this," he said. "You'll just wear yourself out, otherwise."

Her eyes seemed unsure, but she took the ring by her own strength, letting his hands leave hers and stepping up against the railing to allow for a clear shot at the distant ground. Her other hand gripped the wood rail, and her eyes focused frightfully on her outstretched fist, but she knew that even under Balthier's hopeful gaze she could not do it. He seemed to know it as well, and tried with little success to withhold his disappointment as she dropped her arm to her side and offered the ring back to him.

"…I'm not as strong as you want me to be," she said softly, her eyes on her feet.

"Maybe not yet," he replied, taking it from her apologetically. "Rasler will be safe with me until you are." A pause, and then: "Don't stay out too late. It gets cold fast up here."

And he walked away silently, leaving her at the fence to look out into the plunging ravine on her own. It struck her that he had known she needed time to herself—that he hadn't patronized her by ushering her back to the fireside with the others, as though she didn't know what was best for her. At times, she simply didn't want to do what was best for her—she did enough of that for others, and she would never fail them in it, but if she couldn't risk catching cold once in a while, what freedom did she have?

Rasler had always put it that way. If they couldn't sneak out into the garden past their bed time, if they couldn't steal raw sugar from the kitchen to get hyper on, if they couldn't sleep three feet across the bed from each other on their honeymoon—then their lives did not truly belong to them. She shivered slightly, tucking her hands into her sleeves and glancing behind her to the village, which emitted a tender glow as its inhabitants fed their fires.

Night had begun to fall, and with it a deepening chill that she knew would do her no good, but she dreaded returning to the tent, where the others would undoubtedly be gathered, all eager to hear what next awaited them. She scooped up another ball of snow and began nibbling on it, having found that she rather liked the taste—if it truly had any—and stared out into the distance as it darkened, as if withdrawing from her sight. Her head had begun to ache, but she couldn't stop thinking.

A coin-flip had decided that the wedding would be held in Rabanastre and the happy couple would then go to live in Nabudis. When Archadian forces pushed their way into Nabradia and began nearing the city, the king sent his wife, son, and daughter-in-law back to Dalmasca for their own safety, along with a large portion of the royal security detail, primarily as a gift to Raminas for his hospitality, not that it was needed or expected. They lived there for only a few months before Nabudis fell under attack, and Raminas, in accordance with their treaty, sent troops to aid in the defense. To protect his father, Rasler led them.

Three days later, Basch brought Rasler back to her. He had stumbled into the palace foyer, dragging the prince at his side as though he still lived, struggling to walk. She had not been there to greet them, but had heard from the soldiers posted there that Basch had collapsed, and for a time was thought dead as well. She cried on her father's shoulder at Rasler's funeral, but didn't find peace until later that night, after all of the mourners had gone, when Basch was temporarily released from the infirmary to pay his respects. Seeing as he had led Rasler's personal security detail, she had thought for sure that she would punch his lights out as soon as she saw him—she wanted so badly to believe that he was the reason her husband was dead, but it was no use. Exhaustion had taken her wholly—all of her tears had been spent—and she simply sat beside the casket hugging Basch weakly, listening to his heart. And he, good knight that he was, held her close and said nothing.

The memory threw into clearer perspective the way she had treated him as of late. Though she knew that he did not begrudge her distrust, she felt as though she should never have doubted him. But it had become a pattern—distrusting people—and if ever she thought of giving it up, she realized that it could very well mean the end of her. She wanted to trust Basch, she knew better than to trust Balthier, and she hoped she could trust Lamont, but she still could not force her mind to accept the fact that she shouldn't have trusted Azelas. Trust, it seemed, bred only danger and death—and a false sense of comfort.

"Princess?"

The deep voice drew her back from her thoughts, a shock but nevertheless a relief, and she turned to see Basch standing a yard or two behind her, clearly unsure if his concern was at all proper.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "Just thinking."

"You should get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us."

"Right." She hastily started forward, nearing him and then passing him, but as she sensed him turning to follow her, she paused with considerable awkwardness and turned to face him once more. "Basch?"

"Hm?"

"…I never really…" She sighed irritably, lost for words and unskilled in the art of apology anyway, then quickly stepped forward and hugged him as tight as she could. This obviously caught him off guard (and nearly knocked him off balance), but he gathered his wits soon enough and squeezed her carefully in return. "…Thanks for putting up with me," she whispered.

"My pleasure," he replied.


	24. Chapter 23

Damn. Have I really been at this for two years?

_XXIII._

An alliance between Dalmasca and the Empire—reason told her it was the only course, yet she feared she could not bear the shame. Her people hated the Empire; they would not accept this. But as she trudged through the snow, squeezing her shivering frame and grinding her teeth with worry, Ashe felt as though she had no choice, and could not banish from her mind the many reasons she had led her cortege out into the snow-covered forest that morning.

Balthier's words refused to leave her, and the occasional hum of the stone—so similar in thought and presence to her name—wore on her patience with such heaviness that she at last resolved to do something about it, though at the time she had no idea what. She had at last decided to seek the Gran Kiltias's wisdom on the subject, though she had gone to him with the fear that he may have nothing to offer her, and soon had it confirmed. He had indeed heard whispers of such a weapon, but the word nethicite held no meaning for him. He equated it with an ancient power—"the Cryst," he called it—which King Raithwall had wielded during the wars that preceded the great peace of the Galtean Alliance. Ancient writings had described Raithwall's remarkable ability to allay the fears of others, to gain their trust, to convince them, and this, the Gran Kiltias said, could aid her far more than any nethicite. How to master the Cryst remained a mystery, however, and she left the cathedral no better off than she had been when she arrived—so she thought.

Though the word nethicite had never been used in reference to it, a stone of some importance did exist in Raithwall's time—one bound to his blood and divided into three pieces. The Gran Kilitas had informed her that the great sword with which Raithwall cut the stone had been destroyed, so that the three shards may never be divided further, but a second sword remained hidden within the Galtean Shrine some distance into the forest. This shrine had been built on the mountain after the conclusion of the great conference that ended with the forming of the Galtean Alliance—a monument to peace and those who would pursue it. This blade, the Gran Kiltias said, had been gifted to the Gran Kiltias of Raithwall's time, and bore in it the power to destroy nethicite. The Gran Kiltias had always suspected that the purpose of such an act would be to break the old alliance once the line of the Dynast King ended, and to then forge a new one with elected royalty. But when Ashelia described to him the wrath held within the nethicite, he felt certain that Raithwall had left the sword intact as a means of destroying the power of nethicite, should it ever fall into the wrong hands. Why he would entrust the power to destroy the instrument of his greatness to another and not his own progeny, neither could say, but Ashe had seen her path clear in that moment, and thus set out a plan for the next day.

Her cortege awoke that morning with the intention of returning to the _Strahl_, but she had informed them of their new goal, ignoring the groans she received and insisting that they start out at once. Al-Mid had departed, insisting that he needed no assistance in eluding the Imperial fleet that hung portentously overhead, and thus far none had witnessed any indication that he had exaggerated his skills. The princess's only hesitance came in bringing Monty along, for she feared that putting him in any danger could have dire consequences, even if no harm came to him. He predicted this, however, and made his insistence in coming along more than clear, leaving no room for debate.

The trek proved not as trying as what they had gone through on their way up the mountain, but this time they did not go with hopes of peace, and for that it seemed all the more burdensome. Ashelia's mind reeled, tormented by the thought of bringing the power to destroy nethicite against Lamont, though she did not speak of her thoughts. Should she become queen of Dalmasca now, powerless as she was, she could protect nothing—and if she could find no opportunity to gain more power, her only hope lied in depriving Archadia of its own. She did not want war, but she had grown to doubt Monty's ability to sway his brother's opinions. This, she told herself, would avert war; it would prevent Vayne from destroying Dalmasca, and convince him that treating would prove to his benefit.

She trudged on silently, noting that Balthier went along this time with a far less begrudging countenance, though Francesca's agitation seemed to only increase with the snow—much to the bemusement of the others. Before long, Ashe had taken to following in Basch's footsteps, for he plowed through the snow with a stallion-like hardiness which she could not ever hope to possess, but which she figured she may as well take advantage of.

Vaan and Monty bounded always a few yards ahead of the adults, eager to explore and often wandering some distance off course before being ushered back by Penelo, who hovered near them protectively when not joining in their misadventures. Monty took to the rocky path with the skill of the native sheep that watched them from afar, but Vaan seemed to have a streak of bad luck where ice was concerned, for at every attempt to mount a stone he slipped back into the banks of snow at its base, thus providing much amusement for his companions. Monty tried to help him, but soon gave up and left him to Penelo's taunting.

Basch quickly took notice of the princess's proximity, but his concern for her brooding countenance soon outweighed his relief in her restored trust, and when he felt sure that Monty had ventured out of earshot, he quietly addressed her:

"Why so troubled? All has gone well so far."

With a sigh, she answered in as unimposing a tone as she could muster: "I feel like I'm selling my soul—crawling to Vayne, promising I'll behave if he gives me the chance…I never thought I would buy peace for this much shame…"

"Shame perhaps for you and for me," Basch replied, "but for Dalmasca it is hope."

"And you can just accept this, can you?" she bit back.

"…Not easily," he admitted with a sigh, "but this war is more important than my pride—or yours, for that matter."

She took in a grounding breath and tried to smile. "There are times when you sound just like Balthier, you know?"

"I'm sure you mean that as a compliment," Balthier injected, gleaning a smirk out of Basch.

Ashe returned her gaze to the snow, finding comfort in its resemblance to the sand of her homeland—pale, smooth, retaining her footprints with effortless perfection. It occurred to her then that Basch likely found comfort in it as well, for Landis laid hidden beneath thick snow for nearly half of each year. What strength it must take, she thought, for him maintain such optimism after so many years in foreign lands, after so many tribulations, after so many defeats. By her measure, Basch had abandoned hope for honor after Vayne's ruse at Nalbina, yet never did he forget his knightly vows. If he could protect but one person from war's horror, then he would bear any shame—he would bear it proudly. The longer she studied him, the clearer his sentiment became: he could not defend his home; what was shame to him?

But still she could not muster such virtues within herself, for they soon came upon the great stone shrine to which the Gran Kiltias had directed her, and she saw in it the proud heritage of her country—of her family—and could not fight off the overpowering sense of honor that it instilled in her. It stood atop a modest hill, its architecture high and lofty, reminiscent of the Dynast King's tomb, for they had very likely been built within mere years of each other. Vaan and Penelo, too, experienced the rush of pride at first laying eyes on it, and stopped in their tracks to gaze upon it in wonder, Monty still and awed between them.

Ashe proceeded forward to better observe the vicinity, curious of the many small tents that had been pitched at the base of the low hill—shelter for travelers who dared not take rest on holy ground. The area at first appeared devoid of life, save for a few shrubs and evergreen trees, but the presence of white creatures was soon felt by all, Fran pointing out (thanks to her exceptional hearing capabilities) several pristine hares nearby, as well as a powdery white owl perched on a high corner of the temple and a well-camouflaged fox in the distance.

The group decided to take rest for the night and venture into the shrine the next morning, though reaching this decision took a lengthy discussion on what exciting wonders might await them within—the children, of course, being eager to explore such things, but ultimately unable to convince their companions that the expedition could not wait until tomorrow. But the wait did not please Ashe, either, though she knew it best to explore ancient dangers in the light of day, and while the others slept, she found no respite, eventually resigning herself to a breath of fresh air. Exiting the tent, however, she found that she was not the only one too restless to lie awake, for Monty sat on the front steps of the temple, his back to her, his eyes focused upwards at the dimly moonlit Archadian fleet. Ashe briefly hesitated in approaching him, but soon realized that she may not get another chance to ask him what she had been aching to ask for some time now, and decided that she had better act upon it while she could.

"Lamont?" she asked plainly, feeling her heart tense up when he turned to her. "…Are you alright?"

"Fine," he said with a small smile. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

"Because of the fleet or because of the nethicite?"

"You're starting to sound like Balthier."

He smiled. "My deepest apologies."

"Do I really seem so affected by it?"

"Not always. I'm actually kind of glad I'm not the only one." At this she cast a somewhat suspicious glance on him, but he quickly comprehended her wariness and expounded politely: "Sometimes I think I can hear it."

A pause fell between them, and she spoke softly: "…Power can do that."

"Power…" he replied with a thoughtful nod.

"I don't think it has much use, though," she went on, sitting beside him. "Other than proving who I am."

"I suppose that's for the best," he agreed.

"Perhaps."

Another pause, as he focused on the ground and she searched for something—anything—appropriate to say. With a small, childish tone of guilt, he at last broke the silence, his eyes far off in awkward embarrassment. "I'm sorry I've caused you so much trouble…"

"No, no," she insisted with a quick, frantic shake of her head. "You've done us far more good than bad."

He nodded toward the fleet, his voice moderately accusing. "Is that good?"

"That's inevitable," she assured him.

"Then is it bad that I want to go home?"

A sigh overcame her attempt to ease the situation. He had caught her off guard, as she now knew him as prone to doing, but even had she anticipated his feelings on their current circumstances, she had little aptitude for comfort, and found herself fearful of offending. "…I don't mean to patronize you or insult your brother," she said slowly, "but I worry about what might become of you if you go back."

"I don't think he'd hurt me," Lamont said gently. "I mean, I can't know anything for certain these days, but…Drace and Gabranth wouldn't give him the chance. You don't have to worry."

"They take good care of you?"

He nodded. "Despite my best efforts."

"Basch isn't exactly obliging where his brother is concerned," she admitted. "I wish I could meet him."

"I don't think it would make much difference," said Monty. "He's just like Basch."

"He can't be!" A moment of stunned silence fell then, for though Ashe had not spoken with exceptional volume, the severity of her tone proved enough to suggest anger in such an accusation, and Lamont had intended no such thing. Quickly regaining her wits, she calmly added, "I mean…I know they're brothers, but…"

"They can't be very alike if they hate each other?" he asked at her hesitance.

"Right," she said, her tone dulled.

"That's what I always thought," Monty explained, "and I _have_ tried to see it otherwise, believe me, but that's just how it is. I thought meeting Basch might explain Gabranth, but I guess there's more to it than that."

"What is there to explain?" she pressed, and then hoping to not sound so childishly nosey: "If you don't mind me asking."

It wasn't that she truly wished to know all there was to know about Gabranth, but she had come to realize that there had to be something good in him if he could raise such a kind child, and if she could only come to understand this one aspect of his being, perhaps she could grow to understand him as Basch did. However, she knew the danger of hope, and she tried her best to bed down her curiosity for the good of her own heart.

"I'm not sure, really," Monty answered with a thoughtful expression of puzzlement. "Sometimes he's just so…sad."

"Sad?"

"You know—kind of serious, gets quiet sometimes. But only since the last year or so."

Her voice lowered. "Do you know why?"

He hesitated. "I think it had something to do with Dalmasca—you don't mind, do you?"

"No, tell me."

"Well, I got older, and my father decided Drace could handle things on her own, so he reassigned Gabranth. Judge Zecht died at Nabudis, so the army was a little short…anyway, I don't know for sure, but I think he was assigned to the Nalbina Treaty. He led some troops in securing the border, I know, but…he and Drace only talk about Nalbina when they think I'm not listening. I asked her once, and she told me not to bring it up—especially not to him."

"Hm…"

At her silence, he glanced up to her, big brown eyes somewhat shrouded by hopeful uncertainty. "…Basch didn't do it, right?"

She nodded. "Right."

More silence descended as his eyes turned to the ground, focused with such intensity as none would ever expect from one so young. He shifted slightly, his breath still, and spoke almost shamefully: "…Vayne was there."

Ashe looked at him with subtle bewilderment, praying that he might read her sympathy over her anger. He turned his eyes upward, gazing out at the distance as though forcing himself to see some humor in the situation.

"It's amazing what you can overhear in a palace," he said. Another pause, and then: "I try not to think about it."

"…Gabranth assimilated to the country that conquered his," she replied slowly, her voice mildly mournful. "Helping it take down others—can't have been easy for him."

Monty nodded. "He hates this war—all wars, but this one…"

She nodded as well. "I know."

"I suppose what I don't understand is why they can't just suck it up and get along. They both seem reasonable enough."

"If it were that easy, they'd have moved on by now. I doubt either of us knows the whole story."

"Good point," he admitted. "Maybe I just want to make it up to him—Gabranth, I mean. After all my family did to his home, he's never held it against me."

"How could he?" she asked reassuringly. "You are not responsible for you family's actions."

"I wish it were that simple. It's not fair that he should have to do this. He's the only person who's never tried to use me."

Now she looked directly at him. "You really think that?"

"I know it," he said, meeting her eyes. "It's not that I'm upset or anything—you're using me for something good, just like I'm using you. The same goes for Vayne and my father—Drace and Balthier, all of them. I can understand that. But sometimes…" He shrugged, turning his gaze away once more. "…It's just nice to not have anything expected of you."

"I see," she replied, her eyes falling to the ground as well. A brief moment of silence settled between them, and she spoke again: "…My mother never used me—I think because she had always been used."

He answered first with a slow nod, and then added, "My father tried not to, but using people was the only thing he ever really understood."

It seemed to dawn on her all too quickly then: Monty had remained in mourning for all the time he had traveled with them, but he did not dare bring it up, knowing his companions' feelings regarding his father's death. She now wished for greater knowledge in the art of providing comfort, but no thought came to her, no action or assurance struck her as being particularly useful. At length, she offered the only words she could muster that might convey her intent: "…I was about your age when she died."

"…Does it ever go away?" he asked quietly.

"No. But it gets easier."

Ashe realized then that she had never outright discussed losing her mother. Rasler had known better than to mention it, and her bodyguards had avoided it with well-honed skill, and she had certainly never dared to bring it up with her father—the pain had always been to near for him to speak of. She began to wonder if this had simply been because she had never known anyone who shared the loss. Vaan and Penelo had definitely gone through something similar, but they did not lose a queen—they did not see the weight of a country placed solely on their father's shoulders, and they did not feel the pressure of their people to emulate their mother's every quality in her absence.

The way Monty spoke of his experience, he seemed to predict each emotion within her, and as she described her own dealings at the time, his expression revealed that he, too, found the similarities of their views rather astounding. He told her that Vayne did not speak of his own mother, and that he had always known better than to speak of Monty's for fear of worsening their father's grief, and for a moment Ashe felt as though peace had at last stepped within her reach. She could actually relate to this Archadian—he actually felt the same things she had felt—and if she could come to understand this, then surely her people could, too.

However, she soon saw the flaw in this. Archadia had not suffered in the same way that Dalmasca had—quite the opposite, in fact. If Dalmasca had lost its mother, then surely Archadia had killed her, and Ashelia knew that to convince a throng of angry people that blame and vengeance would do them no service would indeed prove a difficult task. She wished she could show all of Dalmasca the humanity of their enemy, the guilt and occasional justification that plagued Archadia's citizens, but she feared she may simply have to bear their anger, for she knew it to be for their own good. She knew they could never comprehend this.

Lamont's gaze remained steady, unwavering. Ashe tried to smile, to ignore years of hatred and terror of this boy's heritage, to forget that he had been bred for war, just as all of the Solidors had. He spoke with such a human quality that she came to despise herself for second-guessing it, but she had to maintain her skepticism—for two years now, it had kept her alive. He did seem truly oblivious to this, though. Unlike her, Monty let his guard down—he did not regard this as having anything to do with politics. He somberly related what he could of his opinion of his mother, the elegance of his enunciation sturdily masking his age, though she had learned to see beyond it now. Secretly, she wished to embrace him, for she herself had wanted nothing more at his age.

Ashelia's mother had suffered a recurring illness since early adulthood, which physicians attributed to an experience in her teen years that caused her to nearly drown. Though she seemed healthy enough day-to-day, every so often she would become winded—let out a gasp and take in a deep breath—and then attempt to pass it off as nothing. When her lungs at last gave out, the sorrow the princess and her father experienced proved somewhat lessened than what it might have been, for both had known that the queen's condition had worsened in her last year, and both had witnessed the remorse she felt when she could no longer take her chocobo for long rides through the oasis, or walk through the palace gardens. Her death seemed more a relief than a tragedy.

Monty had a slightly different understanding of death. The cele-brations of his birth overshadowed his mother's funeral. When he grew old enough to understand, he was told that she died bearing him. Some people, he noticed, could not meet his eyes when they spoke of it—his father especially. When he asked Vayne for clarification, he explained that every royal marriage was a contract, and that his mother had exchanged her life for his, and that he shouldn't ask about it anymore, so he didn't.

The difference, however, came in that Ashelia had lost only one parent at an early age—Monty had lost both. He told of his father's better attributes, the good times they had spent together, the admittedly hilarious things he had told Monty in times of joy. It pained her to see Emperor Gramis in such a different light, but somehow she felt that she needed to—there had to be humanity in her enemy if there was to be humanity in her. When it occurred to her that Monty may soon become her enemy, she found herself unable to reconcile such a thought with her own intuition, and thus ignored the possibility entirely, speaking with him as she would with any other until just a few hours before dawn. Noting the time and what lied ahead of them, they decided that it would be best to sleep a bit before the sun rose, even if both still found sleep impossible—which they didn't.

The group entered the temple the next morning with expectations of puzzles, traps, and all other assortment of obstacles that they had met in Raithwall's tomb, but this shrine proved far friendlier, designed to welcome visitors and provide sanctuary to those seeking peace. It stood in honor of the Galtean Alliance, the last era of tranquility known to Ivalice, the pinnacle of the world's harmony—a calm brought on by Raithwall, the great and amiable Dynast King. Ashe could not help but flatter herself that this building commended her family—her heritage—and though its innards proved rather boring, she found the pride it instilled in her nothing less than enthralling.

The others, however, made little attempt to mask their disappointment, Vaan and Penelo inspecting every painting and statue for some secret, and Balthier and Fran quickly letting their guard down and following the princess with weary complacency. Only his paranoia where Ashelia's safety was concerned sustained Basch's interest, and Monty appeared fascinated by the historical treasure trove the temple provided him, for it had been rare that his father would allow him to delve too deeply into the triumphs of his supposed enemies.

Before long, they had reached the center of the building, a small square room that held at its center a stone tablet bearing carvings in praise of King Raithwall. Ashe struggled to make sense of the inscription, finding her knowledge of the ancient Dalmascan language decidedly lacking, but wondering how it could have degenerated so drastically since her days of translation in the tomb. It struck her several minutes into the pathetic attempt that several of the letters—not entire words, but just a letter here and there—had been carved upside down.

"Thank God," Balthier quipped upon hearing her explanation. "The last thing Dalmasca needs is an illiterate queen."

"Don't make me turn Fran on you again," Ashe warned.

"Do they say anything?" asked Vaan, looking over the great slab of stone.

The princess had received the same thought—to read only the upside down letters and see if they formed any words—but she could not decipher their meaning, if they indeed had one.

"…I don't think so," she answered, running her fingers over the stone with defeat.

"Then why turn them over?" asked Penelo.

"Maybe the whole thing's upside down," Vaan suggested with a groan.

"That's actually not a bad idea," said Basch.

Ashe nodded. "Let's flip it."

It proved not too difficult a feat in the care of many hands, and in a matter of minutes they had lifted the stone from the depression in the floor that held it and inverted it completely. Before Ashe could reexamine it, however, it sank several inches deeper into its setting that it had when right-side-up, triggering a section of stonework on the far wall to draw back and slide off to the side. Satisfied with the ease of their victory, they promptly followed their new path. The door led to a short, cramped passageway, which in turn led to yet another small, square room, exactly like the one preceding it, only devoid of any objects.

"What's so important about this?" Vaan asked.

"Maybe we missed something," Monty replied.

Fran stepped farther into the chamber, surveying it carefully with keen eyes and ears. "There must be something we're meant to see…"

Balthier followed her, the others venturing to the center of the room as well. "So why can't we see it?" he asked.

A small sound escaped from the floor, then, as they passed to the far side of the room—a scrape, as one stone emits when dragged across another, faint enough to earn itself no echo, but loud enough to be noticed. The group went silent, carefully observing their surroundings, and then all at once the floor gave way with a monstrous creak, shifting like a stone platform balanced on a single, central support. They fell from their feet in an instant, sliding down the ramp along with a good deal of dust and loose rocks until they hit the ground below, falling from the stone platform, rudely but safely deposited in a hidden chamber beneath the temple. As they recovered, however, they found themselves unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the upper floor raised back up without them, the absence of their weight setting it back on balance and allowing it to effectively seal off any escape.


	25. Chapter 24

Yet another reminder: changed Larsa's name because of an immature joke my friend and I have regarding drag queens and the full monty. Please stop trying to kill me for it. Just a personal touch.

_XXIV._

"Ouch."

Vaan's weary groan seemed to voice the thoughts of the group as a whole. A thick veil of dust shrouded the atmosphere, but as it slowly thinned, the soft glow of magicite shone through with a mild air of optimism, revealing that they had not fallen more than a few feet off the end of the platform. No exit could be seen in the low-ceilinged chamber, and their entrance had promptly sealed itself behind them, but the walls around them proved rife with murals that seemed to offer highly confident promises of escape.

"Well, that was awfully rude," Balthier declared, standing stiffly and dusting himself off.

"Everyone alright?" Basch asked.

"Seems so," Ashe replied, looking over the group. "But perhaps we should be more careful of where we step from now on."

Penelo rubbed her back end with a grimace. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

No further danger presented itself, though they explored with brimming caution, and Ashe approached the nearest wall to inspect the inscribed drawings, noting the sophistication of their detail, both in paint and in carving. Monty's eyes trailed over the heavenly veins of magicite that smoldered in the walls, pointing out that they did not match the stones bearing the murals. The others speculated that the light-bearing stones had been brought from some unknown distance for the construction of the shrine, though there existed no magicite mines in Bur-Omisace.

"Raithwall practically owned the planet," Ashe explained, tracing a deeply engraved image with her slender fingers.

"And all of the people on it?" Balthier asked, earning a brief glare.

"The whole of Ivalice came together to build this," she said. "There must be more to it than paintings and trapdoors."

"You think everyone helped with the tomb, too?" Vaan asked. "King Raithwall's, I mean. He had a lot of respect back then, didn't he?"

The princess took a few sideways steps along the wall, her eyes bright blue in the light of the glimmering stone, her face so childishly hopeful in the presence of her ancestors. "He brought world peace after centuries of bloodshed," she explained softly. "They revered him."

"How?"

All eyes left the great paintings now and fell on Monty, who seemed to recoil upon receiving such attention, though he did not retract his question.

"…What?" Ashe asked.

"How did he do it?" the boy expounded. "After so much war… wouldn't the distrust be enough to destroy any attempt at peace?"

"He offered them an alliance," she said, returning her gaze to the stones before her. "They didn't keep records back then—all we know is what's been passed down from the generations before us. He united all of the countries under one government, and once they realized how good it was, they stopped protesting and accepted it."

"But in the beginning…" Lamont pressed. "How did he make them listen?"

"Umm…" Penelo stepped in, her cheeks somewhat flushed. "…I—I don't mean to interrupt, but…your, um…"

And at last Balthier took up her message, addressing the princess: "Your Highness is glowing."

She cocked her head slightly, then followed their gazes downward, seeing precisely to which _Highness_ he referred. The front of her hip emitted a faint light, slightly off center but close enough to appear awkward, and she quickly ended the joke (which the others thoroughly enjoyed) by removing the Midlight Shard from her pocket. Unfortunately, the stone promptly ceased its reaction, leaving them with no hint as to what had caused it in the first place.

"Aww," Vaan groaned. "Why'd it stop?"

"Perhaps it senses something we do not," Fran speculated.

"Something you can't sense?" asked Balthier. "Not so sure I like this…"

Basch seemed somewhat distracted by the mural engraved in the wall behind the princess, which she had been studying when the stone reacted, and he gestured to it hesitantly, uncertain of what exactly it was that he saw.

"…There's something different about this one," he said quietly.

All turned their eyes to it in close inspection, though there seemed nothing particularly special about it. The carving depicted Raithwall alone, having given both of his daughters—each with a chunk of nethicite—away in marriage in the previous mural. In truth, it appeared one of the plainer paintings in the room, though for some reason there seemed to be a good deal of detail in it.

"…What's that?" Ashe asked momentarily, pointing behind the painted figure to the grey stone that bore it.

Though the surface did not hold the same color as the other murals, it had nevertheless been carved very faintly, a myriad of delicate lines swirling behind the drawing of Raithwall, blending into the wall.

"Oh, weird…" Penelo mused.

"Looks like clouds," added Vaan.

"Mist?" Basch asked.

"It has eyes," Ashe replied with a shudder.

"Where?" asked Balthier.

"There," she said, pointing to a pair of deftly hewn circles amid the curling lines. "And there."

"And down here," Monty noted, pointing out another pair.

"My God," said Basch, "they're everywhere."

"Creepy," Vaan muttered.

"…It's kind of warm," Monty said slowly, laying a hand on the stone.

Like a frightened flock of sheep, they all mirrored his movement, feeling that the wall did indeed emit a gentle, throbbing heat. A sudden shudder then resounded throughout the chamber as the weight of their touch seemed to loosen the stone panel that bore the carving. All paused for a moment, exchanging glances, and then they laid their hands on it once more, pushing in unison until the great stone dropped into a groove of about three or four inches beyond. Unseen forces drew the panel to the side, revealing a hidden alcove beyond and releasing a humid cloud of Mist that gleaned a choke out of Fran. The attention of the group momentarily shifted to the Viera, who stumbled backward and shook her head.

"…It's alright," she assured them, rubbing her eyes and flicking her ears. "…It's…it's dissipated."

Balthier questioned her once in Vieran, and she answered him in the affirmative, so the others turned their eyes once more to the small room, Ashelia nearing the entrance cautiously. But Basch grabbed her arm before she could step beyond the threshold, pointing to a suspicious slot carved in the sides of the stones on either side of the "door."

"That doesn't look so good."

She stepped back, eyeing the slot with somewhat fearful curiosity, and then Balthier tossed a stone through the door, triggering a massive steel blade to zip across the threshold and crash into the opposite side with a reverberating _clank_. After a moment, the blade surrendered its balance, now loose from whatever mechanism had held it, and fell flat against the stone floor with still another clank. They all looked at each other knowingly—the kids huddled together protectively, Ashe clinging to Basch's arm, the pirates standing with proud smirks—and slowly they relaxed, throwing a few more stones through the door and then entering after them.

After a painstakingly slow walk down a short corridor (preceded by many tossed stones), they arrived at a pedestal surrounded by three magicite-ripe walls that seemed to signal a dead end. Out of the pedestal stood the hilt of a sword, though the blade appeared firmly embedded in the stone. Yet just as they began to question how they would retrieve the sword, the Midlight Shard in Ashelia's hand glowed once more, emitting a sharp ring that caused the blade to vibrate violently, cracking the stone of the pedestal until it simply shook apart, falling in chunks at their feet. The sword could not stand on its own, however, and came to a thundering crash once it support had collapsed, once again rattling the nerves of all present. Finally, the wall directly across them shifted slightly, knocking a good deal of dust loose, and then slowly began to raise, revealing a clear path back out into the snowy woods beyond.

"Well, that was easy," Balthier remarked.

Ashe suppressed a groan, placing the Midlight Shard back in her pocket and bending to pick up the sword. She found it heavier than it appeared, and could not identify the metal that composed it, but she felt childish questioning such a thing, and simply held it up for her companions to see.

"Wow," said Penelo. "…Sure is big."

"And shiny," Vaan added.

"But how do we know it works?" asked Basch.

"You should try it on the Midlight Shard," Vaan suggested giddily.

"What?" Ashe replied flatly.

He shrugged. "You know…See if it can really destroy nethicite or not."

"It's no use to us, after all," Balthier added. Then, giving the princess a glare: "Right?"

She examined the blade of the great sword with mournful hesitance, and then said, quietly, "It seems reckless."

At this, Monty's eyes lit up, and he turned to Penelo with a hopeful smile. "Penelo—do you still have the nethicite I gave you?"

She averted her gaze, shyly reaching across her body and gripping her forearm. "…Well, yes, but…it's special…"

"Come on," he coaxed. "This is important."

Balthier smirked. "Soon enough he'll get you a diamond to replace it, anyway."

Glowering rather adorably at him, Penelo slowly offered up the small stone to Ashe. "…Alright."

"…Are you sure?" the princess asked, taking the nethicite delicately.

"Go ahead," Penelo assured her with a nod.

Ashe still appeared somewhat apprehensive, knowing the value of the rock, but both Penelo and Monty looked on eagerly as she set the nethicite at her feet, so she quickly allayed her sensitivities and made ready to strike. The sword proved far heavier than most she had wielded in her time with the Resistance, making its fall all the more effective, but the chopping of the stone did nothing more than divide it in two. Sparse fragments of light sparked out of the wound, but they soon fizzled against the temple floor, leaving the nethicite bare and glum before her.

Ashe leaned in, inspecting the shards, mumbling a weakened, dumbfounded, "…What?"

"Wonderful," Balthier groaned, folding his arms and rolling his eyes. "All you've done is make more."

Ashe shook her head. "But…"

"Maybe it only works on the real stuff," Monty suggested, approaching the stone and looking it over. "This is artificial."

Penelo, too, knelt beside the broken halves, taking them carefully in her hands and piecing them together hopelessly. She seemed undaunted, however, and held a chunk out to Monty, who took it with a smile.

"Why not try the Midlight Shard?" asked Basch. "It's done us no good so far—no point in keeping it."

"We don't know yet that it's completely useless," Ashe insisted.

"Is it's use really something we're ready for?" he asked back.

She took in a breath, removing the Midlight Shard from her pocket and turning it slightly in her palm, gazing into it as though some excuse would produce itself from within the hazy shadows of the stone.

"Come on," Vaan whined eagerly. "The Garif said there's nothing left in it…"

Seeing she stood no chance, Ashe gritted her teeth and gripped her sword. Hesitantly—tepidly—she set the Midlight Shard on the stone slab before her, taking a moment to steady it as though it might roll away once the chance came upon it. She then stepped back and readied the sword, holding it rather loosely in her hands for all at once her limbs felt lighter, almost like the blood within them had been replaced with water. After a moment, she recognized the feeling as drunkenness, though she knew this could not be the case. Feeling the eyes of her companions resting expectantly on her, she began to lift the sword, only to halt when the stone emitted a faint glow at her feet. The blade lowered once more, and she took yet another step back.

"…What's it doing?" she asked, a small pang of urgency in her voice.

Monty tilted his head, but could fathom no answer, and Balthier advanced slowly on the nethicite, eliciting an even greater glow from it, as well as a subtle rumble of sound that seemed akin to the ringing of metal against metal. He knelt beside it, watching the halo of light that surrounded it pulse brighter and softer, a twisted, unholy heartbeat, then looked up to Fran, who had silently approached from the opposite side.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"It fears the sword," she confirmed.

Ashelia allowed the tip of Raithwall's blade to rest on the floor, inquiring with eager hope, "Then there is some power left in it after all?"

"So it would have us think," said Basch.

"We can't just walk into Archades and chop up the Dusk Shard if we aren't sure the sword will work," Balthier went on. "We have to test it. No point in using something we can't trust to work."

"…Fine," Ashe said at length, planting her feet once more and raising the blade.

The others backed away again, eyes wary but expectant, and she took in a breath, tensing her muscles and readying herself for the impact of the steel against the stone.

"Wh—what if it explodes?" Penelo chirped feebly.

Yet again, Ashe lowered the sword.

"It can't if there's nothing in it," Monty assured them.

"The Garif seemed certain it was empty," added Basch.

The princess looked them all over, her eyes demanding whether they were doing this or not, and they gave her no further resistance in return. She lifted the sword, digging her toes futilely into the gritty floor to balance out the weight of it, then rested her eyes on the small rock before her, its faintly glowing surface pleading with her to yield. Slowly, the light of the Midlight Shard seemed to expand, rising high and billowing slightly before calming and swirling itself into a vaguely familiar form. Ashe's eyes followed the Mist upwards, widening as they recognized the figure they beheld, sending a coat of cold sweat to her palms that nearly caused her to drop the great weapon that she held above her shoulder.

Rasler stared back at her, a cold, ghoulish image that somehow seemed at once friendly and suspicious. She studied him carefully, knowing his presence to be false, but wondering as to the purpose of it. From the stance of the others, she could tell that they did not see him, and before long, she didn't either, as he quickly faded from view, the Mist that created him fading at the edges, dissipating into the clear, dark air around him. The blade fell, a resounding clank flying from it and bouncing off the stone walls of the shrine, but the Midlight Shard was spared, rumbling slightly a few inches from the strike point beside it. Ashe straightened, looking to all of her comrades with a sharp intensity that for a moment seemed to beckon antagonism—to dare them to disagree.

"We don't need to test it," she stated rather harshly, now wielding an expression that warned clearly against any opposition. "It'll work."

Balthier glowered at her, turning his back and walking away. "If it ever finds its mark," he muttered over his shoulder.

The others slowly followed after him, cowed by the solidity of her resolve, though Vaan and Penelo both seemed apprehensive to leave her side. Ashelia loosened her rigid grip on the hilt, letting the tip of the blade tap the stone floor delicately. It slid slightly, scraping against the rock, drawing her focus from the thin veil of Mist before her. And yet even with her attention stolen from the foggy distance, she felt for a moment that another presence accompanied her, and she scanned the Mist for any source of sound within it. She could swear she heard an echo bouncing in the distance. She could swear it was her name.

Though her eyes searched with all due strain, nowhere among the clouds of Mist could she detect an image, living or not. It briefly sounded like Rasler's voice that called to her, but the sound soon faded, melting into sync with the footsteps of her companions, prompting her to follow them. Still, her thoughts raced, and not even the beauty of the great temple could distract her from the lingering horror that had so briefly overcome her, and yet so deeply shaken her.

Little discussion of the day's events continued outside of the shrine, and, seeing that the sun would quickly fall and a sprinkling of snow with it, they decided to stay the night in the empty sheltered area at the base of the holy ground, so that they could take their journey back up in the morning. Under Basch's instruction, Vaan managed to successfully build a fire in the pit at the center of the camp, and all had fallen in to a heavy sleep as the darkness descended, exhausted from their travels and the seemingly endless assortment of trials that they had met along the way.

Balthier, however, had stayed up a bit longer, feeding the fire and surveying the horizon, and then disappeared down the wooded path upon seeing that no others would notice. Francesca, of course, heard his departure, but thought nothing of it and trusted him enough to believe with all assurance that he would return shortly. That he did, though only for a moment. He at first gently shook Monty's shoulder in a civilized attempt to rouse him, but when the boy rolled over and curled up, completely oblivious, the pirate decided that he'd been polite enough and gave him a firm kick, quelling the ensuing protest with a reminder that Monty had just a few days ago instructed him to do so.

"What's wrong?" Monty asked, once they had exited the tent and walked clear of the others' earshot.

"Wrong?" Balthier replied. "Since when are you so cynical?"

"It's the middle of the night. Just tell me."

Balthier rolled his eyes and continued walking down the winding mountainside path, the boy tiredly trying to match his pace. "God, you sound like a scientist. Just be grateful I woke you up this time. You're a heavy little bastard."

"And you think _I'm_ cynical?"

"Well, I suppose it will do you some good, with the road you're headed down."

"I'm not going to get mixed up in politics," he insisted. "Everyone who tries ends up miserable—and I'm no good at it, anyway."

"Sure you're not," Balthier shot back with a frank air of boredom.

"I'm _not_," Lamont growled. "I can't even stop this war."

"No one can stop a war, but that hasn't stopped you from trying. Admit it, Monty: you were born for this."

"Vayne was born for this."

He glanced down at him, slightly amused, but did not let his pace falter. "Does it really scare you that much?"

"This isn't false modesty," Monty answered. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"You've already begun," the pirate replied. "You got a Dalmascan to work with you—and not just any Dalmascan. Ashe doesn't just go around trusting everyone she meets. Hell, you even got a Rozarrian on board. By all rights, he should have killed you the moment you suggested it." He paused for a moment, noting not only Monty's silence, but his sullen stare and grim expression. His royal confidence had faded beyond recognition, and he walked morosely at his side, gazing gloomily at the ground with premature sorrow. "So that's it," Balthier said after a moment, and the boy glanced up at him curiously.

"What?"

"Monty," he said with a sigh, "I was a soldier at fourteen, a Judge at sixteen, a fugitive at eighteen, a pirate by twenty, and now a half-assed, under-paid royal chauffer at twenty-two—I know how it feels to grow up too fast."

"Then why aren't _you_ trying to save the world?"

"You think I'm not?"

Monty's attention strayed then as they rounded a corner, coming into view of an Atomos that had left the fleet and landed clandestinely among the fir trees that cluttered the mountain path. As soon as the boy laid eyes on the armored figure that awaited him, he left Balthier's side with a gallop. "Gabranth!"

Before the Judge could even respond, Monty crashed into him, embracing him with all his strength. "Easy there," he said with a small laugh, mussing the boy's hair. "I thought you were getting too old for this."

"I was," Monty answered, still clinging to him as though his life depended on it. "I think I'm younger now."

"That would explain a lot."

This got his attention, and he drew back a bit and looked up to Gabranth with genuine remorse. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

"Worry me?" Gabranth replied. "You scared the living hell out of me."

Monty turned his eyes to the ground and shook his head shamefully. "I don't know what I was thinking. I won't do it again."

Gabranth didn't seem to believe him, but wasn't about to drag his embarrassment out any further, and instead turned to Balthier. "Sorry about all this."

"No need," the pirate replied. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"You're sending me back?" Monty asked, more shocked than angry.

"The longer you stay here," Gabranth explained, "the more you endanger the princess."

Balthier shrugged. "Nothing personal."

"Can't I even say goodbye to the others?" the boy pleaded.

"Bergan is with the fleet," said Gabranth. "It's only a matter of time before he realizes I'm down here, and then he'll have no reason not to search the summit."

Monty hung his head briefly, realizing the danger such an occurrence would pose to the princess and her cortege, as well as the futility in his struggle to stay any longer. "Right…"

"Always eager to stir up trouble, that one," Balthier groaned.

"Especially now that he knows you're here," Gabranth replied. "You should keep the princess hidden a while longer."

"Somehow I don't think she'll be too happy about that," said Balthier.

"He means to kill you both," Gabranth insisted.

"I thought I had a live bounty."

"Vayne's command overrules Cid's."

Now Monty stepped in: "Vayne ordered Balthier dead? Why would he do that?"

The pirate smiled with a quaint air of pride. "Probably to keep me from having a bad influence on you."

"Well, I'll talk to him—"

"Your brother must look at the world with more caution now," Gabranth said firmly. "There are reasons behind his decisions, whether we want to understand them or not."

"But what harm is Balthier to Archadia?" Monty questioned earnestly, getting a haughty laugh out of the pirate.

"And here I thought you were so bright for your age!" he mused. Monty scowled, and he continued with more friendly a tone: "Come on, kid! Don't worry about me. I've handled worse problems than Vayne."

"Don't hurt yourself," Gabranth groaned.

Balthier rolled his eyes. "I'm not an army brat anymore, Gabranth. I'll be fine."

"Don't flatter yourself, either."

And now he smirked, shifting with brief discomfort. "You've got your brother's sense of humor."

At this, Monty's eyes widened, and he looked up to Gabranth with sudden eagerness that belied his age. "Won't you at least go talk to Basch?"

The Judge shook his head. "I doubt I have anything to say that he wants to hear."

"You're not working for my father anymore," the boy went on resolutely. "I can give you orders now."

"That's the other thing," Gabranth replied. "I'm not working for you anymore, either. Vayne has given me command of the _Alexander_. When we get back, you can order Zargabaath around all you want."

Lamont gazed at him with a deep, confounding sorrow, his eyes appearing all the more wide and brown when filled with such betrayal. Even Balthier felt a pang of sadness, though pure astonishment quickly followed it: this was nothing short of stupid on Vayne's part.

"What about Drace?" Monty asked, his voice noticeably weakened.

The sentiment seemed to be returned in Gabranth's tone, though he knew better than to express too much frailty in front of others. "…I'm afraid she's been convicted of treason."

"What!?" Monty exclaimed.

"Her sentence has already been carried out," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Why is he doing this?"

"He only wants what's best for you."

"He has no idea what's best for me!"

"Lamont…"

Monty never stayed angry for long, but he was not about to relent on such an issue. He had always known that Drace distrusted his brother, but he would not readily accept that she betrayed her country because of him—and he would certainly not have both of his bodyguards taken from him. "I'm not going back unless you stay with me," he growled.

Gabranth shook his head. "You know that's not my decision."

"Then make him understand!" the boy begged. "What else is there for me to go back to?"

"You can't control the world, Monty," Gabranth explained with a subtle, sympathetic sigh. "Disappointment is a fact of life."

Monty's eyes began to water faintly. "I'm not disappointed, Gabranth! I'm _scared_…"

This nearly did the trick, and Gabranth briefly felt as though he had returned to the throne room, kneeling on the red carpet, Drace's sword in his hand, but he had suffered enough at the hands of the past and refused to let it influence Monty. "You know I'd never let anything happen to you…" he said.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Lamont replied.

"You have to let others make their own decisions. It's unfortunate, I know, but there are some things that just can't be controlled."

Monty stared at him despairingly, clearly unconvinced, but seemingly out of excuses.

"Don't worry about the rest of the flock," Balthier assured him. "I'll watch over them."

"The longer you're gone," Gabranth added, "the more Vayne worries about you, and that doesn't sit well for anyone. We're hoping if I bring you back to Vayne, he'll return things to normal."

"How can things ever be normal without Drace?" Monty whined.

Gabranth at last gave up on pleading and removed the warmth from his voice with fatherly precision. "Lamont, your brother means to find you at all costs—I'd prefer to do this quietly."

Taking the cue, Balthier joined in: "You're better off with Gabranth than you are with me, brat. Besides, we need someone to keep an eye on Archadia for us."

Suddenly, a fourth voice spoke up from a few yards up the mountain path: "You're leaving!?"

All eyes fell on Penelo, who stood with clear shock on her face at a distance that she obviously only kept for fear of the unfamiliar Judge at Monty's side.

"…I guess I am," the boy answered her grievously. "Sorry."

"Don't look so put out," Balthier added. "You must have seen it coming."

Her first instinct told her to swoop upon Monty like a hawk taking her chick beneath her wing, but she did not know whether he in fact needed her protection. She feared that he didn't, and knew he would leave of his own accord, though she hated to admit it, but—Judge or no Judge—she would not have him leave without a proper farewell.

"But he's safe with us," she whined, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "You look after him just fine…"

"Not by choice," Balthier countered, rolling his eyes and turning to Gabranth, who let Monty approach the girl without objection, but seemed slightly mesmerized by her.

Upon first glance, he thought for sure that he saw a hallucination of some kind—or at least that he was dreaming—but he quickly realized that the childlike blonde before him indeed existed in the present reality, and he nearly laughed out of bitterness. The resemblance did prove striking at first, but it took only a passing inspection to see the difference—though one thought persisted in the back of his mind: Basch must be terrified of her. He knew better than to stare, however, and spoke as politely as he could:

"Penelo, I take it?"

She nodded. "…Gabranth?"

He nodded as well. "Forgive me for saying so, but I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Always. I'm afraid I must relieve you of your escort."

Her eyes turned downward briefly, breaking their forced contact under the pressure of such sorrow and intimidation. "I understand."

Noticing her discomfort, Monty took her hand with an unsteady smile. "You can come if you'd like."

This got a small laugh out of her, but she refused to be so easily convinced. "I'd love to, but that might cause more problems than the world is ready for."

"Ivalice has never turned down a challenge," he replied with forced optimism.

"Monty…" Unsure of how to properly bid farewell to royalty, she at last decided to use the same method she used on all others, and drew him in close, squeezing his shoulders and smiling slightly upon feeling him squeeze her ribs in return. "You just take care of yourself, alright?" she whispered.

"Alright," he replied. Yet, as she released him and turned to leave, a sudden surge of panic swept over him and he lurched forward a step. "P—Penelo!"

She turned back to him with curious blue eyes. "Hm?"

"Uh…"

Seeing his embarrassment, she stepped closer and knelt before him, allowing them a bit of privacy. "…What is it?" she asked in as soothing a tone as she could manage.

He hesitated a second more, but then seemed to abandon his thoughts and act on his resolve. It was a shocking moment for all present—himself included—but none were able to react to it, and in truth, it all happened so fast, none of them had the time, anyway. Monty simply closed his eyes and briefly pressed his lips against Penelo's, then stepped back, said goodbye with a staunch, uncomfortable nod, and walked away. Gabranth looked back and forth once or twice from the frozen and dumbfounded girl to the terrified and retreating boy, but ultimately found nothing to protest and turned to leave. Balthier adopted his usual cocky expression and stood for a moment, arms folded, staring after the prince with admiration, and Penelo, utterly speechless, simply fell back onto her rear and laughed.


	26. Chapter 25

_XXV._

Though the absence of the fleet reassured Ashelia and her cortege, Monty's departure seemed to lessen the shine of the sun, and the trek back to the summit proved far more somber than any seemed comfortable with. True, the conference had been a success, but should Al-Mid, Ashelia, or Lamont fail to hold up their respective ends, the war would continue on, just as complicated as ever. While the boy had been under their care, none had considered just exactly what sort of danger they had sent him to deal with, but now the possible fates he could face seemed vivified before them all.

Ashe, too feared for her own effectiveness, for she still had no idea where to find Marquis Ondore, and worried that even should she locate him, she would have no luck in convincing him to stand down his forces. Indeed, she had helped in training them—preparing them to bring about the end of the Empire—but suddenly the violence of war appeared nothing more than a dark cloud overshadowing the peace that stood just barely out of reach. She regretted having bred her troops for war, now seeing that they may never even have to face a single battle, but at the same time a miniscule, withdrawn part of her hoped that the plan would fail, if only so that the Resistance could serve it purpose, for better or for worse.

However, as they rounded a turn in the stony path, rising pillars of smoke drew her attention to the settlement at which they had taken shelter just days ago. Snow-covered trees hindered her view, but she spotted an Archadian airship about the size of the _Strahl_ resting silently in the snow not too far off, and in an instant she knew that they should flee the area, but she could not bring herself to do so.

"My God…" she muttered, picking up pace.

"Princess…" Basch called after her.

The others ran at their heels, not about to let the town that had so kindly welcomed them be burned to the ground, but upon their arrival, they found that their efforts had been mustered too late. Much of the village still stood, but it had been cleared of residents, save for the dead ones that had been left behind in the hasty exodus. Avoiding the sights of a small gathering of soldiers that busied itself boarding an Atomos to return to the fleet, Ashelia and her cortege made for the great cathedral outside of the settlement, all fearing what may have become of the Gran Kiltias.

All too soon were their fears confirmed, for they found the cathedral doors wide open—splintered, barely hanging from their ornate hinges—and there before the cracked altar in the great hall beyond, surrounded by shattered glass and torn tapestries, stood Judge Bergan, his back to them and his sword drawn. Archadian soldiers hovered near the room's perimeter—only four of them it seemed—focused intently on destroying the last treasures of the temple and unaware of the group's presence. Their entrance did not go completely unnoticed, however, for the Judge glanced over his shoulder with a small screech of steel, shooting the princess a glare of welcoming amusement.

"Ah, our vagrant princess." He turned fully now, his armor creaking as his feet rose and clanking as they fell, and there behind him they at last saw the crumpled, bleeding body of the Gran Kiltias, still and ashen, clearly devoid of life. "Too late and to their sorrow do those who misplace their trust in gods learn their fate," Bergan continued. "It's a shame such fools go down in history as martyrs."

"You bastard…" Ashe sneered, noting the advance of the four soldiers at the chamber's flanks. "This is neutral territory—you have no right!"

"This war can only be won in absolute," he insisted, halting his approach a few yards before her. "Those who don't surrender to us are opposed to us. Neutrality is only a matter of semantics."

"Honestly," said Balthier, "why even bother trying to justify yourself anymore? Can't you at least have the decency to admit you're a self-serving jackass?"

"I've found etiquette to be the most glaring difference between a Judge and a pirate," Bergan quipped.

Balthier smirked. "And I suppose competence ranks a close second, right?"

Bergan laughed. "Fair, if nothing else. I'll admit you're a hard man to keep up with, though I suppose I should thank you for providing me with such ample entertainment as of late."

"I do try."

"Now why not be civil and let Her Majesty admit defeat with honor?"

Vaan and Basch both stepped closer to Ashe's side, but neither drew his sword just yet.

"Stay away from her!" Vaan warned. "She's trying to settle this without killing people. Why do you want to get in her way?"

"Sacrifices must be made," said Bergan. "It is better that they be deserving."

"The Gran Kiltias was deserving?" Ashe growled.

"For aiding and abetting a traitor to the Empire?" Bergan scoffed in reply. "More deserving than most I have brought to justice."

"Do you truly have no concept of peace outside of submission?" the princess demanded. "The longer you oppress your conquered subjects, the more they will grow to hate you."

"And you're no exception, are you?" he shot back. "Swift has your lust for revenge led you to Raithwall's sword. If you know what's good for you, you'll hand it over. Vayne may take it as an offering of apology and spare your life."

"Apology?"

"For kidnapping his only heir, of course."

She sneered disbelievingly, fighting the urge to shake her head. "We did no harm to Lamont. If anything, we rescued him."

"And just any criminal knows what's best for him?"

"I am no more a criminal than Vayne!"

The Judge's hand jerked subtly, lifting his blade upward and then outward—a quick containment of his ire that nevertheless caused both Basch and Vaan to reach for their swords, and the four Archadians surrounding them to mirror the gesture. Balthier seemed utterly disgusted.

"With your people at his mercy," Bergan growled, "you would do well to speak higher of him."

"I will speak of him only what he has earned," she snapped, "and in sending his troops to massacre a harmless village, he has lost anything I ever may have owed him."

The Arcadian soldiers that encroached on them finally closed the gap at the splintered doors and grew still, their prey surrounded, but their orders not yet given. Bergan stepped forward. "You underestimate the severity of your crime. The treaty your father signed in Nalbina sold you to Vayne in marriage—perhaps if you were his family, you would treat Lord Lamont as the nobility he is and not use him for your own selfish gain."

"My father would do no such thing to me, and neither would I to Lamont!"

He released a biting laugh, then proceeded forward as he spoke, clipping the consonants like the highborn Archadian that he was. "Hereditary treachery plagues your line—it is unfit to rule a household, let alone a country. Your people will rejoice more in your death than in your ascension."

Balthier drew his sword with such swiftness that none even noticed his hand dart to the hilt. "Back off, Bergan," he warned quietly. "I'm the one you want."

Bergan tilted his head and spoke smilingly: "Arrogant as ever, I see. Can your ego not accept the premise of killing two birds with one stone?"

"Cid will have your head, if I don't first."

"You always did have to learn the hard way."

The two quickly met blades, Bergan striking first and Balthier easily matching his speed, and the four soldiers that surrounded the others descended upon them with violent haste. One fell immediately, impaled by his hapless charge, the victim of ill luck and Basch's extensive skill, but the others fared better, forcing their opponents into a vulnerable cluster. Balthier and Bergan sparred recklessly, throwing one another against the remaining pews and the piles of debris, struggling to floor each other in the hopes of opening a fatal gap in defense. Ashe fought to break away from the back-to-back group, but Penelo, inexperienced and trembling with fear, could not hold her own against any of the ruthless soldiers, and so the princess remained at the aid of her bodyguards.

Fran broke the standoff, lashing out at the nearest soldier and engaging him in a match of dodging and parrying that gave her comrades a moment in which to catch the other two off guard. One soldier lunged at the group, meeting Vaan's blade while Penelo cowered behind him, her sword readied clumsily in the hopes that its presence might make her attackers think twice before singling her out. Ashe and Basch charged the third soldier, finding him skilled enough to ward both of them off for quite some time.

However, Ashe soon left the squabble to aid Vaan and Penelo, for she knew that neither had much battle experience. Her arrival proved quite timely, for Vaan fell to the stone floor with a jarring thud, and the soldier responsible turned his rage on Penelo. He struck once, and she blocked it, then again, and her luck held, but his third strike fell short as Vaan tripped him before he could land it. The soldier delivered a brawny blow to Vaan's jaw, and Penelo responded by kicking him in the stomach. Now thoroughly enraged, he grabbed Penelo's delicate ankle and dragged her to the floor with him, then rose to his knees—placing one on her stomach to immobilize her—and regained his sword while Vaan still helplessly recovered. The soldier moved no farther, however, for Ashe hacked into his shoulder from behind, nearly decapitating him before he hit the ground.

"Hey!" Penelo protested gratefully. "We're supposed to be protecting you!"

Ashe looked up, eyes trained on Balthier and Bergan as they disappeared into the rear chamber of the cathedral, swords still swinging. "With all due respect," she replied, "you'll have to catch me first."

Vaan rolled to his feet and flexed his jaw with a wince. "Better get going, then!"

"Come on," Ashe added, dashing forward.

"Wait up!" cried Penelo.

Fran finally dispatched her foe and turned to see the three follow her partner, and Basch's opponent, suffering a deep wound, fled the church at his first opportunity. Rather than take up the chase and finish him off, Basch traced Fran's gaze.

"She followed them?" he asked.

"Seems so," she answered.

Basch rolled his eyes, heading for the back door with a muffled sigh of exhaustion. "Just like Rasler…" he muttered.

Silently, Fran followed.

Ashe arrived to a scene of heated rage nearing its end, with Vaan and Penelo steps behind her and Basch and Fran steps behind them. Compared to the mess in the temple's vestibule and public chamber, the small back room seemed fairly well-treated—a gash marred the rich carpet, the casualty of a blade dragged across it and upwards in defense, and one row of curtains hung loose from their post, exposing the jagged mountainside that dropped off at the building's edge, but no other damage presented, either to the room or the combatants within it. Balthier had the upper hand as the princess entered, dodging a quick strike and using Bergan's momentum to slam him into a corner hard enough to knock his blade to the floor, but in her rush to aid him, Ashe mistakenly did just the opposite.

"Balthier!"

He turned, kicking Bergan's sword away, but otherwise letting his guard down. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself caught?"

Disarmed but undaunted, Bergan laid a crushing grip on Balthier's wrist, holding his blade at bay, and with the other arm he shoved the pirate back against the high rising windows that overlooked the steep ravine beyond. A panel of glass shattered, briefly blinding Balthier, and though he maintained his grip on his sword, one more push could easily send him over the edge.

"Ungrateful to the end," Bergan sneered.

Ashe, acting on instincts yet unknown to her, lunged at Bergan, forcing her sword under a plate of armor with all her might and by some divine grace striking flesh. She received an elbow to the nose for her efforts, releasing the hilt of her blade and falling to the floor, but she had bought Balthier enough time to gather his wits. Bergan still held the pirate's right hand fast, rendering his sword useless, but Ashelia's sword remained in the Judge's side, an almost comically convenient lever. Bergan's right hand darted toward the wound, and Balthier's left followed it, grabbing hold of the blade. Bending low and digging his shoulder into the Judge's stomach, he flipped him behind him through the broken window—breaking another in the process—and flicked his own sword downward against Bergan's arm, causing him to release his grasp and fall freely to the icy river below, his armor sending a resounding series of echoing _clanks_ throughout the mountains.

The others approached Ashe, helping her up as she wiped a considerable amount of blood from her nose, and Fran joined Balthier at the window, leaning out carefully to better see the result of Bergan's final battle. Balthier tried to slow his breath as Ashe stepped to his other side, sheathing Bergan's sword at her hip, as he had taken hers down the cliff with him. With an expression of slight anger that quickly melted to genuine concern, Balthier deftly wiped some blood from the princess's chin, only to have his hand swiped away.

"Don't think you're getting a discount for that," he said, little emotion evident in his voice.

"Don't think I did it for you," she replied.

"This will cost us dearly, you know," Basch pointed out calmly, glancing over the ledge.

"Yeah," added Vaan. "We gotta get out of here."

"Agreed," said Ashe, striding slowly back to the cathedral's main hall. "But it's a long road back to the ship."

"And we're low on supplies," Balthier muttered.

The silence of the great chamber grew incalculably denser in the wake of the brawl, the cloven altar at the front a reminder of the holy treachery imposed on the settlement, the splintered double doors at the back an echo of pain and injustice. Penelo turned her gaze upward, studying the elegant chandeliers and comforting ceiling beams that remained intact, likely solely because their lofty position held them out of the attackers' reach.

"So, what are you saying?" she asked, stepping lightly as though fearing a disruption of the temple's holiness. "We steal? Haven't they been through enough?"

"There's more food here than people," Balthier explained tiredly, not bothering to look at her.

"But…they helped us…"

"Penelo," Vaan stepped in, standing at her side as she slowed to a stop, "a lot of people are dead now; they're not gonna use it. We won't take more than we need."

"I know, but…"

"It'll be alright," Basch added. "We'll tell them what we're doing. They'll probably volunteer."

"I know I would," said Ashe, staring at the Gran Kiltias, and then setting her jaw and crossing the room, looking over the wreckage as though in search of something. She swooned a little, but hid it well, and then bent her delicate wrist and rubbed it over her mouth, wiping away still more blood.

Penelo bit her lip slightly, but seemed at ease with this answer. Basch's eyes remained softly trained on her, and while she did not notice, Vaan did, though the Landisian quickly shook himself out of whatever trance had taken him without any prompt.

Fran hesitantly neared the Gran Kiltias, her ears perked warily, her eyes trained on the withered old man, who slouched in a puddle of blood at her feet. "…Why would they do this?" she questioned distantly.

An answer readied itself in Vaan's mind, but he had grown wise enough to know better than to voice it—indeed, he had grown wise enough to know better than to believe it. He wanted the Archadians to be responsible for this, but knew he could not be so broad in is his blame. There were reasons other than nationality for what had transpired here, and whether he cared for them or not, whether he understood them or not, he would have to acknowledge them sooner or later.

"…People…" he said slowly, "…have different ideas of right and wrong."

Balthier, too, looked over the corpse with consoling eyes, and spoke quietly: "He didn't have to be a threat to be perceived as one."

Fran shook her head, but said nothing.

"…Shouldn't we do something?" asked Penelo, holding her small fists to her mouth timidly.

Ashe approached with a large panel of drapery that had fallen from the temple windows, and she spread it out in the air before her, laying it carefully over the lifeless form. "Their burial rights are very sacred," she explained.

Basch looked over the ruined temple with a heavy sigh. "At least Monty didn't have to see any of this."

"He may have it worse now that he's back under Vayne's control," Ashe added.

"Don't worry," said Penelo. "He's not easily controlled."

"So what now, Princess?" Balthier asked. "If you won't destroy your own rock, does that mean we're going after Vayne's?"

"I suppose so," she answered.

"Maybe it's a good thing you didn't chop up the Midlight Shard," Vaan suggested. "This is all getting out of hand—even if it's worthless, we can at least use it to scare them a little!"

"I doubt we can scare them enough to get anywhere near the Dusk Shard," said Basch.

"Does anybody even know where it is?" Penelo asked.

"I can venture a guess," Balthier replied somewhat bitterly. "Draklor Laboratory, in Archades. The Empire's weapons research begins and ends there."

"Oh, man…" Vaan growled. "Don't tell me we're going there…"

"Sorry," said Ashe. "If that's where it is, that's where we're going."

Basch suppressed a groan. "Nevermind that it's the capital of the very country that seeks to have us all killed."

"Well," Balthier quipped, "it also happens to be my hometown. I can get us in faster than Vaan can get himself arrested."

"Hey!" Vaan injected.

"Let me guess," Ashe added, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. "Balfonheim Port?"

"Now how would a princess come to know of that?" Balthier asked with a smirk.

"Lamont spoke of it," she answered. "He said he knows someone worthy of our trust there."

The pirate nodded, his eyes somewhat troubled, but his demeanor otherwise normal. "Yes, an old friend of Vayne's—though they're not on such good terms these days."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" asked Vaan.

"More or less," said Balthier. "At any rate, he poses less danger than the lab. You all could stay at the port while Fran and I get the job done."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ashe growled. "I am not just leaving my country's fate to a pair of pirates."

"You can't just walk into Archades, either," said Basch.

"I can and I will," she snapped.

"You'll be dead in five minutes," he contended.

"Not if you do your job."

"Uh, Princess…" Penelo stepped in, one hand twirling nervously in her hair. "Maybe you should just let them handle it. I mean, they're professionals, after all."

"That's what concerns me," Ashe replied in a low, calm tone.

Balthier gave her a deliberate scowl, not out of offense that she should think such a thing, but out of anger that she should _correctly_ think such a thing. Still, he remained convinced that if she failed to destroy one stone, she would invariably fail to destroy another, and once she possessed the Dusk Shard, she would move on to the final conquest—the Dawn Shard—and before long, there would be no semblance of her former self left to the world; she would no longer be Ashe, just as Cid was no longer Cid.

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Highness," he said coldly. "I can't rob you until you've paid me—and I'm expecting more than a piece of nethicite."

"This is startin' to sound familiar…" Vaan groaned.

"You should consider your options until the last possible moment, Princess," said Fran. "Where nethicite is concerned, your trust would be better placed in us than in Reddas."

Ashe wrinkled her nose. "A dark truth if ever I heard one."

"And who is Reddas?" Penelo asked.

"A pirate," Balthier answered. "A damn good one."

"Some call him the 'Pirate King' even," added Fran.

"That doesn't sound good," said Basch.

"Normally, it wouldn't be," she went on, "but he will not harm us so long as we do no harm to him."

"He's partial to Monty," said Balthier. "We'd have to do a lot to piss him off."

"Well," Ashe replied, "let's get going, then. We've brought enough trouble to Bur-Omisace as it is."

"Princess," Basch protested, "you can't be serious…"

"Quit whining, Captain," she groaned. "How much can go wrong with you around to protect me?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Was that some sad form of flattery or just another order?"

"Come on," she growled, rolling her eyes and stomping off.

"Either way," said Vaan, "I don't think we have a choice."

Basch shook his head and followed after the princess, while Penelo skipped forward eagerly.

"We're really going to Archadia?" she cooed.

"Seems so," Balthier answered, walking at her side. "Try not to pick up too many more boyfriends."

She came to a stop, scowling at him as he continued on ahead, and then swatted Vaan upon hearing his muffled snicker.

Their journey back down the mountain and through the jungle would be a sorrowful one, but a strange comfort proved their reward: somehow—despite the better judgments of a few—they all had come to look on the _Strahl_ as a haven, and even in trekking toward the unknown perils of their murky future, each felt a small sense of going home.


	27. Chapter 26

_XXVI._

Upon his return to Archades, Lamont had thought for certain that he would face strict punishment, but his brother had a talent for surprising him, and made this occasion no exception. He was instead greeted with great joy, and despite his new-found fear of Vayne, he couldn't resist running to him at full speed when he first saw him in the throne room. Vayne, in turn, at first seemed ready to chastise the child, but was immediately taken by the same sweeping emotion, and in an instant fell to his knees, scruffing up Monty's hair and embracing him until he wheezed for breath. Gabranth stood by silently, as always.

"God, you little punk!" Vayne exclaimed with a laugh. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"Sorry," Monty replied, trying to quell his own laughter.

Vayne at last pushed the child back to take a good look at him, but did not seem happy with what he found. Monty's eyes still held their usual sparkle, but his face had turned gaunt, and a certain unnamable weariness appeared to possess him. "Oh, my…" Vayne said concernedly, smoothing the boy's hair back in place.

"…What?" Monty asked, mirroring the expression.

"I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, Little Brother, but you look like hell."

"…I, uh, feel like hell."

He took the boy's face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

"I'll try."

Vayne finally realized his inappropriate tendency to coddle his brother and stood. After all, he had to act in their father's stead now. "I can't believe you just took off like that," he said in a weak attempt at his boldest tone. "You're lucky to be alive."

"I know." Monty's gaze fell to his feet hesitantly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just wasn't—really…thinking properly—after Father died."

"There's nothing wrong with that, but you could have just come to me—you know I'll always make time for you." Then the realization of the true problem with the situation dawned on him, subtly dimming the light of his eyes, turning their muddy depths that much more impenetrable. "Where did you go, anyway?" he asked.

"Well, I…" Monty gulped. "I was scared, and—I didn't know what to do, so…"

"Rabanastre," Gabranth interrupted.

Vayne turned him with a look of inquiry.

"I found him in Rabanastre with Penelo."

"Who?"

"His, uh, lady friend."

"Ah…"

Lamont smiled uncertainly. He had grown skilled in lying over the years, but he hadn't the slightest idea how to fool his brother. "I—I didn't mean to…"

Vayne took heed of his stuttering, but thankfully, Gabranth stepped in once more: "It's alright, Monty. Don't be shy."

"…I just wanted to see her again. She cheers me up, you know?"

"I see," said Vayne. "Well, next time, why don't you just tell me and I'll arrange to have her brought here? We can't have you wandering about in public unprotected—especially now that everyone knows about you."

"I—I understand."

"…Are you sure you're alright?"

"…Y—yes."

"Nothing else you need to tell me?"

"No."

Vayne looked him over intently, holding eye contact with a cautionary concern that seemed to border on suspicion, and Gabranth carefully stepped in once more:

"Lord Vayne?"

The emperor looked up, a threat behind his eyes that even Monty took note of.

"He's just a little embarrassed," Gabranth said quietly.

"I kissed her," Monty added, drawing his brother's attention far faster than he had intended.

"You what?" asked Vayne.

Monty took in a deep breath. "I told you I wasn't thinking."

This changed Vayne's expression entirely, and he once more mussed the boy's hair. "Well, you little scoundrel! If there was ever a legitimate reason to run away, that would have to be it. I hope she didn't slap you."

Monty grinned nervously, but could not muster a response, though he was lucky enough to be interrupted anyway, as Zargabaath entered behind him.

"Your Excellency? A word?"

Quickly losing the light in his eyes, Vayne nodded to him. "Right."—And then, addressing his brother once more: "Go clean yourself up. We can talk more over dinner."

Lamont nodded. "Okay."

He turned and headed for the door, but Gabranth lingered for a moment, glancing first toward the former prince and then toward the new emperor. Zargabaath mirrored the expression, and, after a second of suspense, Vayne rolled his eyes and nodded after his brother. Gabranth left.

In the hall, Monty stared forward vacantly, the closest he came to pouting anymore, and Gabranth walked at his side in heavy-hearted silence, knowing full well what soon would come. He'd have none of it, though. In spite of everything, Monty still failed to recognize the grave threat that his brother posed, and if he would not take the necessary precautions, Gabranth would for him.

"You didn't have to do that," the boy said stonily.

"Yes, I did," the Judge groaned in return.

"I may be young, Gabranth, but I know how to take responsibility for my own actions."

"You committed treason."

"So? What's he going to do about it? Kill me?"

Gabranth bit his tongue. Luckily the ever-burdening helmet masked his expression, hiding the shock on his face from Lamont, who heeded his silence by turning his gaze to the floor and saying, gently, "…I know he did it."

"…Monty, your father's murderers have been tried and convicted—"

"And executed—I know, but that doesn't change anything."

"Drace knew what she was doing. She always did."

Monty seemed to withhold a sigh, clearly believing him, but on some level not wanting to. "Did you get to talk to her? Before…?"

"She was at peace with it," Gabranth said quietly. "…Her—last thoughts were of you."

"I won't let him do that to you," Monty insisted.

"Don't worry about me," he replied, tasting blood.

His mind ached, and for a moment he felt quite old, but other thoughts pressed these back into the shadows, forcing him to mull over the rather amazing talent he had developed for lying as of late. But it didn't surprise him. Vayne had only to threaten Gabranth with relief of his duties to cow him into submission. It had brought him to the point that he no longer even knew who he had become, much less how or why he had become it, and some dark thought always managed to creep into his considerations of it, to comfort him with assurances of necessity, to convince him that the benefit outweighed the cost. It frightened him more than anything—anything but losing Monty, of course.

Monty, for his part, remained largely unknowing of this, looking to his feet, to the mundanely passing marble floor, wishing to return to an age when all his ills could be cured with a hug and a bedtime story. "It's strange…" he said. "I thought I'd hate him forever, but…I don't know. It's harder than I thought it would be."

"I suppose that's a good thing," Gabranth replied quietly.

Monty's eyes now turned to the side, determined but unsure. "…What happened between you and Basch?"

Gabranth's voice remained sturdy, but his tone softened. "…What does it matter?"

"Well, hasn't it been long enough? I think you two are far more alike than you want to admit."

The boy had gathered the courage to look up to him as he spoke, but Gabranth would not allow himself the weakness of meeting his eyes. "If you say so."

"Can't you just talk to each other?"

"It's complicated."

"A girl?"

"A country."

Adorably dismayed, Monty returned his gaze to the floor briefly before leveling it straight ahead. "…Who started it?"

"I did, of course."

"What if you didn't?" he pressed. "Would you forgive him?"

"I'd try," Gabranth said coldly. "I can't know for sure."

"How can you not know?"

"Do you know why Vayne does what he does?"

The boy's face seemed to dim, his expression dropping into furrowed discontentment, and at length he shook his head, trying to force his heart to slow. "…I never thought he'd do _this_."

"I'm sure he never thought he would either," Gabranth added.

"That doesn't help."

Gabranth withheld a sigh, lamenting that his only purpose had so suddenly become consoling Monty, but at the same time swelling with pride that only he could fill such a position. Somehow he felt that he had always been a father—his father remained perpetually distracted with military business, and his mother struggled to make ends meet on the farm. Someone had to help her. Someone had to look after Basch. Even in the army, he had outranked Basch. When he joined the Archadian ranks—completely on his own, for once—he had found himself drifting with such a lack of responsibility, burdening himself with laborious duties to keep his mind apart from his sorrow.

Technically, he was older than Basch, and he had never passed up an opportunity to remind him of this, but since the fall of Landis their roles had completely reversed—suddenly Basch had his head on straight and Gabranth just took what came his way and ran with it. He didn't have the same tact for it that his brother had, though, and it wore on him every day—doubly without Drace. But he refused to submit himself to a futile battle. He had seen too many of his countrymen give their lives for a vain hope and a lost cause, and he could not bear the shame of it, much less the pain. He understood in some shadowy way that he had surrendered himself to the will of evil, but he could not live with the thought of surrendering without profit or dignity—he could not handle the way in which so many others pledged their lives to a stubborn monarch and a foundering army, or how he'd feel such a mindlessly faithful hound to cling so to a fallen kingdom. Basch could do it, though. Basch was strong like that.

He remembered biting back a remorseful laugh upon the bittersweet revelation that Basch had joined the Resistance—no surprise there. But Gabranth understood his feelings on the matter. After all, Archadia had taken far more from Basch than it had from Gabranth, and in his youth he'd held a distaste for compliance, anyway—as had his wife. Before they married, Gabranth had feared he'd have two siblings to keep out of trouble, but in the end she figured out how to tame Basch, though it was a secret she insisted she could not share. He had very much admired his sister-in-law, for her bubbly optimism and for her skill in recognizing one from the other, but mainly for her ability to make his brother so purely happy.

She had been the perfect match for Basch, and he often imagined that Basch would think Drace the perfect match for him—or at least that he'd claim to for the sake for getting a rise out of him. Somehow his recent punishment seemed fair, though he would ever lament the unfortunate fact that an innocent woman had died for his sins. At times, he wished that he himself would be dealt a proper end, but he could not allow such misfortune to befall Monty.

Monty.

Without Basch or Drace, there was only Monty, and even he served as a constant penalty. From the day he first laid eyes on the boy—when he lifted him from his cradle and instantly turned his cries to laughter, much to the chagrin of Drace and Gramis—from the very moment he met him, he wondered how he could deserve such happiness. He simply could not understand the reasoning behind this unearned reward, and to this day remained utterly baffled as to why he should be given all that had so violently been torn from Basch. Gabranth forsook his home and his blood, and from it received an empire and a family, and yet at best, he'd _almost_ had a nephew—or a niece. Or perhaps both; twins ran in the family. He wondered now if his punishment had been delayed; if he'd been given this joy for the sole purpose of losing it. In such a case, he would not complain. Perhaps in the end, Basch would betray him and Archadia would fall, and then their fates would at long last be equalized. In spite of it all, he felt it a shame that Basch hadn't been able to watch Monty grow. Even if he lost Monty now, he'd had more than Basch ever had, and he hated himself for it.

Everyday he wanted to seek his brother out and apologize, but he had spent the last two years making his best efforts to no avail, and at heart he knew that words would not fix this. Words paled in the light of actions, and he had none of those to offer. Truthfully, he had never felt deserving of forgiveness, or indeed even worthy of his brother's attention—and with all that he felt, he had become certain that there was nothing he needed to hear and even less he needed to say.

He had settled on it the day he returned from Nalbina—his payment for selling out his own brother. For a moment, Monty's joy made it worth the agony, but then he realized his great oversight: such a traitor had no right looking after the dear boy, no right teaching him honor and respect and love. Monty deserved better than a murderous hypocrite. Somehow Drace saw this—somehow, she saw everything—but she never humored Monty when he sensed something amiss, and she never pressed Gabranth when he insisted he felt fine.

Not a word was spoken that night in the kitchen. Both sat silently across from each other, drinking twice their usual, their feet intertwined beneath the table. She understood what he had done—what he had _really_ done—and needed no details or excuses. He revered that in her. Of course, there had always been things that they did not speak of—their lives before the Judiciary, their opinions of the war, their feelings for each other, their real names—it was a list of unfortunate length, but it kept suitable boundaries in place, and both knew that they needed that.

He had once told her in Landisian that he loved her—barely a year after they had met, when he'd had perhaps a bit too much to drink and Monty had been too small to pick up on such things. They had just put the prince to sleep and were about to part for the night, and somehow he lost track of what he was thinking and what he was saying—thank God he still thought in Landisian. He had apologized for the slip up—the language had been banned, after all—blaming it on habit, but she paid this no heed, asking instead what it meant.

"Goodnight," he had told her, nearly choking when she nodded and repeated it back.

It was nearly seven years later that he discovered she had been fluent all along.

But the world, it seemed, grew emptier by the day, and since he could not win back any of the comforts his own limitations had lost, he resigned to making use of what he still had, and spoke as soothingly as he could in light of his own sorrow:

"Sometimes we do things we know we shouldn't do—things we don't want to do."

Lamont's voice quivered with disdain. "And he's Emperor, so none of his decisions are his own."

"Your father told you that?"

"Always."

"Justification," Gabranth sighed.

"I think so," Monty agreed.

"Vayne may make his own decisions," he went on steadily, "but he makes them on behalf of his people. It's easier to blame him than it is to understand him."

"I know. Just makes me wonder if he ever really loved me…"

"Of course he loves you." The strength of his voice surprised him, though Monty seemed to anticipate it. "You're brothers; nothing can ever change that. He just can't admit to himself that you're stronger and always will be."

Monty looked angry for a moment—his eyes trained low, broodingly conveying a silent accusation that Gabranth would know, or at least that he should know—but this expression soon passed, and he glanced briefly up at the Judge before turning his gaze back down with awkward submission.

"I've always wished you were my father," he said softly.

"You don't mean that," Gabranth replied.

Lamont looked up to him. "I do."

He still stared forward imperviously. "Then you shouldn't say it."


	28. Chapter 27

_XXVII._

It had been quite a journey out of neutral lands and into Archadia. Balthier and Fran had managed to avoid or sneak through all but one Imperial checkpoint, and the _Strahl_ had sustained a bit of damage to her right flank in the skirmish that ensued—not from enemy fire, but from crashing into an Atomos while fleeing in panic. The collision had sent the small craft spinning into the larger one that chased them, and while it created enough of a diversion to earn them a clean escape, Balthier had felt with full force the brunt of his passengers, who for no less than a whole day and a half had heckled him for his clumsy piloting.

Ashe had spent much of the two-day journey in the cabin with Vaan and Penelo, sharing memories of life in Dalmasca before the war. They told her of their parents and their brother, of times before they had worked for their own food and shelter, before they had known the meaning of oppression and degradation. She felt overpoweringly grateful for their presence during this tumultuous time in her life, for she had found in the past two years no greater inspiration to continue her fight than their hopeful eyes, their heartbreaking tales—their faithful encouragement. Now that the strength of her woes had begun to grow and the shadow of the Empire had begun to darken, she needed the motivation of her people more than ever.

Twinges of fear crept up on her occasionally: the thought of losing one of her companions haunted her—the thought of them losing their lives in order to preserve hers—and the terrifying prospect of being caught and killed herself loomed at every turn. Though perfectly willing to sacrifice her life for her country, she knew that to do so would rob Dalmasca of its last hope. Her own importance prevented her from fighting with the same abandon exerted by the others, and she hated it.

For now, however, her greatest fear proved rather trivial: she had counted on retrieving the Dusk Shard herself—she couldn't trust Balthier or Fran with it—but she now wondered whether she could make it through the city without attracting the interest of strangers. Though her "lovely little nose," as Balthier called it, had not broken under the weight of Bergan's blow, both of her eyes had blackened below the lashes for the first two days of the journey down the mountain. She had held snow to it as Basch advised, minimizing the swelling (and sparing her much taunting from the others), and the bruises had nearly healed, but their pale presence remained in the form of violet half-moons beneath her eyes and a red splotch across the bridge of her nose, giving her the look of one either quite sick or prone to tears. Though her cortege had grown bored with poking fun at her wound, she prayed it would not garner her any unwanted attention in Archades.

Thankfully, they did not intend to immediately enter Archades, for the _Strahl_ could not hope to elude the memory of the means by which Balthier acquired it, and they would not risk alerting the security of the royal city's aerodome. They approached Archadia from its eastern coast, the nefarious port of Balfonheim proving the most welcoming entrance. However, the pirates that ran the port maintained their own security measures, and Balthier cringed inwardly as he hailed the dock manager with Ashelia leering over his shoulder. He earned immediate recognition—much to Fran's amusement—but the princess remained almost suspiciously silent throughout the exchange.

"Where the hell you been, boy!" a rowdy Archadian voice boomed through the commlink.

"Oh, you know," Balthier mused. "The end of the world and back—a few times, actually. Is Reddas about?"

"Afraid you just missed him. Got some big job goin' on."

"How big?"

"Big enough he didn't wanna share with any of us!"

A wave of unease passed over the group, but Balthier knew better than to ask too many questions. "Ah. Right," he said. "So are we clear to land or are you just going keep up the small talk all day?"

"Sorry, kid. Dock thirteen is all yours!"

"My lucky number."

Vaan and Penelo bubbled with excitement as the ship landed in yet another country they had yet to visit, but Balthier said at first little and eventually nothing, shutting the _Strahl_ down and heading to the cabin without so much as looking at the others. Basch noted Ashe's concerned gaze and responded with a shrug when she turned it on him, but Fran discerned their suspicions and offered brief assurance:

"He gets quiet when he's nervous."

On the dock, they found Balthier speaking with the shabby (but nevertheless joyful) manager, obviously eager to get on with their business, though his fellow pirate allowed him no such relief.

"It's about bloody time you two came back," he boomed. "What happened to the Rabanastre job?"

Balthier resisted rolling his eyes, instead placing a fist on his hip and glancing over his shoulder to the others. "Let's just say it went decidedly downhill."

"Where is Reddas?" Fran asked, approaching the two pirates calmly.

"Couldn't tell even if I knew," the dock manager answered. "Said he's doin' a favor for some guy named Zecht."

"Zecht?" asked Balthier.

"Yeah. Law of Exchange, you know? Said he thought he was dead, but now all the sudden he's back and ol' Reddas is in debt."

"That can't be good."

He smiled. "Nothin's good these days. Everything we steal goes to Vayne, cocky bastard."

"Didn't I always say that arrangement was doomed for failure?"

"Didn't I always say you're full of chocobo feathers?"

Ashe surveyed the horizon, taking note of the noise of the nearby ruckus they would no doubt encounter further into Balfonheim. Balthier seemed to perceive her impatience, though he did not look at her.

"Look," he said, "we're kind of in a hurry. We need to get to Draklor without drawing too much attention. I was hoping we could hitch on the weekly tribute."

"Good luck," said the dock manager. "The last caravan of supplies left this morning. Since when are you so careful? Just bust on in!"

Balthier rolled his eyes openly this time, walking away with a smirk. "Thanks, Jules."

"Don't get killed, kid! This place is boring as hell without you!"

The others followed Balthier and Fran through the winding docks, fearful of the locals, but nevertheless pleased to have infiltrated enemy territory with such ease. Only Basch and the princess exhibited any distrust of the pirates, though Basch felt certain that his distrust—his suspicion that Balthier would interfere with Ashe's plans for the nethicite—would only benefit the group in the long run. Ashe would not be double-crossed again, however, and allowed herself only minimal restraint on account of Balthier's recent trust of her.

"How did Zecht die again?" she asked.

"Nethicite," he replied shortly.

"Do you think it would be possible to survive something like that?"

"I suppose anything is possible."

"What good is a weapon that kills its user?" she mused. "Perhaps Ghis used it the wrong way. Do you think Reddas would know?"

"I learned a long time ago not to question Reddas on what he knows," Balthier said flatly. "Don't ask him about Zecht. If we start sniffing around where he doesn't want us, he'll have us all taken care of faster than you can say _pirate_."

At that moment a trio of brawling drunkards crashed to the ground before them, drawing to their attention their present entrance into Balfonheim. Balthier groaned at the display, but Fran released one her mystifying smirks, wiggling her tail as she stepped carefully around the scuffle.

"It's good to be home?" she asked.

"Something like that," Balthier replied.

"The gods have a hand in everything," she added in Vieran.

They did not linger in the port, passing quickly to the road beyond that would lead them to the capital city of Archades, but the lively surroundings Balfonheim provided seemed a vast relief in comparison to their solitary travels so far. The merrily reckless pirates that frolicked in the streets proved a great form of entertainment, and the rowdy outbursts the travelers overheard from the many taverns gleaned more than a few giggles.

No one dared interfere with the group, though, for Fran and Balthier had earned considerable names for themselves—and for that the princess and her cortege felt exceedingly grateful. Vaan remembered Balthier's infamy within Archadia from his brief incarceration, and marveled at the power it now lent him. Though Vaan had always imagined freedom as the greatest attraction a life of piracy provided, a reputation, it seemed, made it worth the danger. A life without burdens or interruptions—Vaan had never known such an existence possible.

Balthier did not exactly seem happy with it, though—not now, at least—and appeared to slightly unwind as they left the raunchy port and took to the quiet trails in the countryside. Archadia lent itself well to foliage of all types, its temperate weather varied enough over the course of the seasons to coax a wide array of flowers and trees out of its land, and with them the countless creatures they attracted. The group met a slight delay when Penelo insisted on studying a strange bird that hovered near a blossoming bush, but she quickly got them all back on their way when a small lizard skittered across her path.

The conversation seemed to lighten considerably after this, but Balthier added only the occasional remark, focusing much of his energy, it seemed, on not appearing anxious. Soon, however, he had no need to try, for they all tensed up noticeably as they entered Archades. Balthier assured them that the back alley he led them through posed no danger, but their real concerned lied not in their entrance, but in their eventual escape—the city was well-guarded, and it seemed unlikely that they would leave it on good terms. Fortunately, the distracting splendor of the city slowly lessened their worry, and they found themselves more interested in their surroundings than the purpose of their visit.

The architecture conveyed the same refined beauty evident in the Archadian accent, and the cleanliness of the city lent it a distinctive air of affluence. Towering skyscrapers ornamented with rounded windows and finely scrolled balconies lined the main streets, seeming to raise gently on their shining shoulders a horizon laden with vast wealth and high culture. Their roofs adorned the clear sky, their windows alight with fluttering draperies and gleaming glass, sunlight gliding elegantly down their smooth lines and glowing behind their luminous silhouettes as though it rested there, at leisure along with the rest of the populace.

In spite of the lackadaisical luxury that radiated from the city, from the streets Archades seemed alight with the bustle expected of such a metropolis. The intruders found no difficulty in hiding themselves, for the citizens traveled in a tightly-packed stream into which the princess and her cortege easily burrowed. However, they did find themselves subject to a few intrigued gazes, and thus followed Balthier's lead with all due swiftness and perhaps a heavier collective expression than the situation warranted.

Fran did her best to ignore the stares she received, for while she had indeed grown quite used to them, with the princess at her side, she hoped to avoid such awe as she normally mustered in strangers. It proved impossible, but Ashe did not seem concerned with it, having considered the risk well before their arrival. For her part, Ashe behaved as normally as she could, mimicking the carriage and attitudes of those around her with surprising ease that she concluded she owed to her royal upbringing. Unfortunately, this simple camouflage did not aid Penelo, who nearly tiptoed when distracted by the many wonders of the city and crossed her arms protectively whenever she did catch herself acting like a foreigner. Vaan, too, drew unwanted glances with his excited expression and wide, ungainly steps, though he seemed aware of this and tried unsuccessfully and often rather comically to blend in.

Basch had substantial trouble as well, in spite of his many years serving royalty, but his difficulties spurred not from habit but from the deeply distracting thought of Gabranth living for ten years amid this culture. He found it nearly impossible to believe that his brother could ever fit in here, and this pervasive thought made him all the more conscious of the intimidating exclusivity that surrounded him: the coarse contrast of his rugged Landisian accent against the elegant Archadian, the solemnity of his war-hardened countenance against the carefree expressions of lighthearted civilians born into prosperity—every detail served only to reinforce his discomfort and more effectively make him feel like a hapless pony among thoroughbreds.

Balthier, on the other hand, fit in seamlessly, a reckless buck suddenly a regal stag now that he had returned to his home of so many years. He found nearly laughable irony in the realization that he had long before given up trying to assimilate to his native culture—to meet the expectations of Archadian society—only to suddenly find himself the most well-adapted of the group. However, he did lament the position in which he now stood, for although he did not condone Archadia's actions as of late, he still loved his country, having forsworn its impractical standards not because of any disdain for them, but because he did not feel them worth the sacrificing of the inner deviations that made him affable in his own mind. Some part of him rejoiced in coming home—although a larger part still trembled in fear.

"Wow, Balthier," Penelo said with a small smile of wonderment. "You fit right in."

"Unfortunately," he replied. "Though the rest of you may have some trouble outsmarting the city watch."

"We'll do what we can to blend into the crowd," Ashe said somewhat bitterly. "Our names may be notorious, but our faces are not far-known."

"True," Vaan added with a smirk. "You're our princess, and we didn't even recognize you."

"I noticed."

"I still say you should have stayed behind," Balthier growled.

"I still say it's not going to happen," she shot back.

"If our goal is to blend in," Fran injected, "perhaps I should have stayed behind."

Penelo assured Fran of her beauty and the supposed fact that anyone who found it problematic would do so as a result of their own problems, not hers, and while the others found her cheery injections gleefully uplifting, Basch once again found himself staring at her a bit too intensely. Thankfully, she still did not notice, but he worried that he had begun to make too comforting a habit out of this, though he hesitated slightly upon deeming it on any level a source of comfort. Gazing at one girl while thinking of another reminded him only of past misery, and while he had at one point believed that his wound had somewhat healed, he now felt certain that it cut as deeply as ever, and he had merely numbed himself to the sting.

In truth, it pained him most to suppose that she didn't just look like her, but possibly like _her_. He had always joked with his wife that he wanted a son, and she returned the jest by insisting that they would first have a daughter, but never had he stopped to clearly imagine what any child of theirs might look like—in truth, he had never allowed himself such thoughts, for he knew they could lead to no good. But Penelo—if ever there lived a decent example of the possibilities, it was her. He wanted to cry.

"…You think too hard," Vaan noted.

Basch clenched his eyes shut briefly and shook his head. "I'm sorry…Your sister—reminds me of someone."

Looking out to Penelo with tepid suspicion, Vaan nodded slowly, trying not to let his protective instincts take over. "…Right."

"Relax," Basch added, catching on quickly. "I could more easily be her father."

Penelo turned to them, noting the lag in their steps that separated them from the others, and flapped her hand eagerly to beckon them forward. "Keep up, you guys!"

They finally turned off the main street, finding a little more breathing room as they broke from the great horde to a lesser crowd. Balthier still stared forward, eyes on the horizon, but Penelo seemed oblivious, too fascinated by the glimmer of the great city around her.

"Don't think we won't leave you behind," she warned as Vaan and Basch rejoined the cortege.

"With babysitters like these," Ashelia added, "who needs the Empire?"

"Aw, come on," Vaan replied. "We're not gonna let anything happen to you!"

"Not on accident, at least," said Basch.

"He means that, you know," Fran continued.

"This is just like Rabanastre," Vaan explained. "With so many people around, if anything bad happens, you won't be alone."

"I never thought of it that way," said Ashe.

"I never thought I'd come this far away from home," Vaan added.

Penelo giggled. "Much less that it would all be the same in the long run."

"…Hey, this is where Monty lives, isn't it?" Vaan asked somewhat hesitantly.

"I guess so…" Penelo answered. "Hard to imagine him in a place like this."

"Ah, he's a tough little guy. I bet he loves it here."

"I don't know…"

Now Vaan laughed, more to brighten Penelo's mood that to voice his own amusement. "Come on. Try imaging little Balthier running around here. If he survived it, Monty won't have a problem."

"Being an only child," Balthier injected, "I think I had something of an advantage over Monty."

"He's not gonna take Vayne's throne," Penelo shot back. "He doesn't even want to!"

"He'll have to," Balthier countered. "There's no way around it."

Seeing the confused futility on his sister's face, Vaan stepped in, briefly casting a glare on Balthier before he spoke. "Even if he has to, it'll be alright. Monty will be a good emperor."

"Monty gets what he wants," Balthier said dryly. "And you're going to put him on the throne."

"Optimism," Ashe chided.

"We're going to need a hell of a lot more than optimism," he replied, stopping at a corner and folding his arms.

"What?" Ashe asked.

He nodded upward to the many towering buildings before them. "We're here."


	29. Chapter 28

*And it is, it is a glorious thing to be a pirate king…*

Alright, no more opera for today.

_XXVIII._

The Draklor Laboratories spanned an enormous compound at the northern end of Archades, not too far from the royal palace. Heavy security surrounded many of the buildings—particularly those that housed dangerous chemicals and rare specimens—but the main lab, being comprised largely of offices and archives, remained open to the public, thus granting the intruders instant access. Though Balthier had no trouble picking the locks that bound the doors to the restricted areas, the only way to the upper levels was through the mechanical lifts that remained entirely code-operated. Staircases, of course, would automatically open in the event of a fire, but in times that did not warrant emergency, locked doors and armed guards assured that they went without use. However, nearing the lift, they found the surrounding halls strangely devoid of any activity—empty of scientists, technicians, assistants, and even guards. The group paused in the barren white hallway, tensely surveying their surroundings.

"It's too quiet," said Basch.

"Passing strange," Balthier agreed. "There are supposed to be guards here."

Vaan shrugged. "Maybe we're just lucky, huh?"

"Maybe you're just optimistic," quipped Balthier.

"There is definitely something not right about this place," said Fran.

"Agreed," Balthier replied, pushing open the door to the nearest staircase, "but there's no time for caution. Step to it. Cid's office is on the top level."

Like the first door, they found the one at the top of the stairwell—the one leading to the very floor to which they aspired—shaken from its metal-toothed grip, hanging loosely on its hinges with neither lock nor latch to hold it shut. The floor housed mainly offices, all of which appeared empty, but Balthier noted that the evacuation alarm did not sound, and each office held little evidence of occupation at all. Indeed, they all proved impeccably clean, though devoid of any evidence of inhabitants: no books filled the shelves, no documents covered the desks. He knew that Cid had grown wary of his peers—paranoid, even, that they might overhear his conversations with himself and have him deposed—but this seemed a touch overboard, even for the ever eccentric Cid.

Though no reason for it presented, the group moved tentatively through the bland corridors, never speaking above a whisper and always watching the doors and corners as they neared and passed them. When they at last reached Cid's office, they found it a mess of no simple measure, a well-used contrast to the vacant rooms nearby. Several piles of loose papers sat on the floor, scattered and left to rest in the absence of movement within the chamber. The density of the stillness overpowered the obvious disruption that had shaken throughout the office earlier, for the contents of the room lied in a frozen reflection of its former action, but not a trace of motion could be seen any longer. They entered cautiously, though none expected to meet any living opposition, but the safety they found did little to settle their nerves, for coming face-to-face with the infamous Doctor Cid would have proven less problematic than not knowing his whereabouts to begin with.

"What a dump," said Vaan, poking a flimsy stick model of some elemental structure and accidentally shattering it.

"He's had visitors…" Penelo noted.

"The type lacking manners, by the look of it," added Fran.

"Maybe the Resistance beat us to him," Vaan suggested, carefully inspecting a pile of books that had spilled from their shelf.

"Awfully bold of them," Basch commented.

They continued to speculate and investigate, Fran even venturing to take a few sniffs of the papers scattered across the floor, but Ashelia soon noticed that Balthier seemed preoccupied with his father's desk. She approached with feline tepidness, her feet taking soft, calculated steps toward him, and though he seemed to perceive her attention despite her hesitance, he kept his eyes focused on the lone leaf of paper that he had dared to touch—a crude map of some sort, as far as she could tell.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head, studying the drawing with a great intensity. "Giruvegan…He said he found it six years ago, and ever since he got back, this…"

"Strange…" she agreed, halting at his side and gazing over the map. It appeared by no means professional grade, bearing no key or accurate measure of distance, but what seemed most eye-catching were the cloud-like lines that surrounded its edges, and the faint eyes drawn on the rough outline of the sky island labeled _Giruvegan_. The faded figure roused in her memories of the inscriptions she had seen on Raithwall's casket, though something far more shrouded seemed to hide behind this image.

"I didn't know it was an actual place," Balthier said distantly, equally chilled by the sight. But something else then caught his attention, and he looked up to one of the many great boards scattered about the office, studying the numbers scrawled across it. "…That can't be right."

"What?" Ashe asked.

He approached the board and took up the pen laid at its base, then tentatively copied down the original equation, making a few additions. "…What the hell?" he asked softly.

The princess stepped up to his side, her expression furrowed. "A mistake?"

"Are you kidding? The only mistake he's ever made is me."

"Bal." Both turned upon hearing Fran's call, and she met their questioning eyes with relieved confirmation. "Reddas has been here."

Balthier raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Really?"

"I could not confuse his scent in a hundred lifetimes."

"Hmmm…"

"Something we should know?" Basch asked.

"Certainly," said Balthier. "I'm just not sure what it is."

He stepped up to a blank patch of board with a bit more confidence, then, in the strong, elegant lettering that highly schooled Archadians were widely known for, began scribbling out what appeared to be a complex mathematical formula. The others gathered in slowly, unsure of what precisely they now witnessed, none having ever taken into account that the skypirate had been raised a noble and worked alongside scientists and mathematicians for much of his life. Finishing his father's equation, he stood back contemplatively, a light in his eyes like they'd never seen, an upset in his voice like they'd never heard.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said with a faint sigh.

"Havin' fun there?" Vaan mused.

"This is wrong," Balthier replied.

"What?" asked Fran.

"This." He gestured gracefully to the altered copy of the equation, explaining as best he could: "Manufactured magicite is powerless on its own. It has to be buried in mines and kept under pressure for centuries before it grows its energy, and even then, it's so unstable it usually changes its genes and mimics the stone around it. That's why we're still mining the natural stuff." Now he pointed to the string of tangled letters and numbers that he had written. "This is a genetic model of magicite—in numbers." And then he gestured to Cid's equation. "Over here is nethicite." Pointing out a small divergence in subtext numbers attributed to one of the element-signifying letters, he continued. "The only difference is right here. He didn't create nethicite, he just fused a single cell of it with artificial magicite. So he makes all the magicite he wants, then turns it into nethicite so it can absorb energy out of Mist."

"So?" Vaan asked.

"Magicite creates energy," Balthier answered. "We don't know how, but that's beside the point. He's using existing energy." He received nothing but blank stares in response, and suppressed a sigh as he went on with yet another explanation: "Look. One of the most basic scientific theories is that energy can't be created or destroyed, only transferred. So, assuming we've been right on that one since the dawn of the age of reason, magicite _doesn't_ create energy—we've always considered it the exception, but that doesn't make much sense in the scheme of things. If it doesn't create it, it must be somehow absorbing it, which means that nethicite is nothing more than a catalyst. Mist comes out of the planet, and nethicite absorbs Mist. If magicite is doing the same without Mist, then it must be ditching the middleman and absorbing the Mist straight out of the planet itself. Now, maybe a few pieces of nethicite will be harmless, but by speeding it up with all of his little manufactured toys, he's disrupting the whole process and sucking the planet dry before it can transfer more energy."

They stared at him with empty eyes and confused expressions, and Penelo, blinking slowly, spoke for them all: "…He's a vampire?"

"Close enough," Balthier replied.

"So all this energy he's taking…" said Ashe, "is being used by Vayne?"

Balthier nodded. "Scary, isn't it? He's getting massive amounts of nethicite for a fraction of the cost of magicite. Spend the extra on more ships, charge them all up…we're pretty much screwed."

"An army more powerful than the world it dominates…" Ashe said quietly.

"You're not makin' any sense," said Vaan.

"Just trust me," Balthier sighed in return.

Suddenly a crash sounded down the hall, and frenzied shouts rang out, indiscernible amid the echoes, but clearly referring to some escaping threat.

"They found us," Penelo whimpered.

"Reddas, more like," added Fran. "We should lie low for now."

But Balthier smiled smugly, heading for the door and carefully opening it as the ruckus outside died down. "Better yet, we'll use their confusion."

His plan proved a smart one, though Basch did not appear at all eager to involve the princess in it. She, however, met his hesitance with her usual insistence, and before long the whole group had ventured out into the halls once more, following the violent racket at a fair enough distance that they went for the most part unnoticed.

Unfortunately, a trio of guards caught them rounding a corner, and the group had no choice but to dispatch them before they alerted others to their presence. The scuffle ended as quickly as it began, the guards finding themselves well outnumbered, but the group soon discovered that they would have inevitably met the same fate had they not discovered the intruders. As they proceeded through the white hallways and toward the stairwell, increasing numbers of dead guards presented, some flat on their faces against the cold floor, some slumped sullenly against the walls.

The trail led up the stairs to the roof, and the group paused at the final doorway, Basch once more reminding the princess that her life was too precious to risk so freely. Swallowing her disappointment, she allowed Balthier and Fran to bust through first, though, up on following, she found all danger directed not at her but at Cid, who, flanked by a pair of guards, neared an Atomos idling on the roof. A tall man of imposing build—Reddas, the princess and her cortege assumed—encroached on the slowly retreating group, his lone sword drawn in response to their three and his voice thundering even as he calmly attempted to reason with the scientist.

"You know deifacted nethicite brought down the _Leviathan_. How can you persist in this folly?"

Cid responded with a rather jovial laugh, and spoke with tone free of even the slightest unease. "Have you come here to stop me? Honestly, I allotted you more sense than that."

Balthier stepped into view then, near to Reddas' side, yet still a step behind him. "Consider your numbers, old man," he said plainly. "And bear in mind that the voices don't count."

"Ah, my favorite scrap of skyscum!" Cid exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"Treasure—what else would a pirate want?"

Reddas glanced over his shoulder. "Just can't keep yourselves out of trouble, can you?"

"It's more an art than a vice," Fran replied, nearing his other side as the rest of the cortege followed with swords drawn.

Balthier ignored the exchange and took another step toward Cid. "Just hand over the Dusk Shard and we might kill you quickly."

"You've come all this way for that trinket? I thought you above this." He paused then, looking to his side with sharp attention, though his guards had edged forward and no one now stood at his side. "Hm?" And now he quickly turned his gaze to Ashe, who studied him incomprehensively. "Ahh…The princess of Dalmasca?" he scoffed. "She's not entirely without merit."

"Don't listen to him," Balthier warned quietly.

"Not very hospitable…" Cid went on to no one in particular.

Ashe shook her head in pity. "…You're out of your mind."

"You're the one carrying around a worthless rock," Cid shot back.

"Do not lend him your ears, My Lady," said Reddas. "He means to use you."

Cid rambled on, looking to his side as though some unseen being stood there, answering its silent inquiries. "Damn it, what do you want with her? She's useless."

"Shut up!" Balthier interrupted.

"We're not here to steal the Dusk Shard, but to destroy it," Ashe added. "You've seen what it's capable of. If you truly care for Archadia, you will do the right thing."

"Ah," Cid replied calmly. "Nothing like a bit of hypocrisy in the afternoon. You must think our country seeks power without regard for means or consequences."

"I know it."

"But just how far will you go for power, Princess? Are you really willing to let the nethicite consume you?"

"I mean what I say. I will destroy it."

"You mean it and you say it, but I'd love to see you do it."

She glanced briefly to Balthier, but he did not meet her gaze, his eyes focused intently on his father, his expression fraught with betrayal. She did not understand how a simple stone could make a man fall this far, but now that she saw it with her own eyes, she felt a surge of determination fill her—inspire her. She would not let her country down. She would not let Balthier down.

Returning her hardened gaze to Cid and setting her jaw staunchly, she quietly growled what Balthier could not: "Someone has to learn from your mistakes."

Her words had a far greater effect on him than she had anticipated, and after taking a brief moment to consider her with genuine concern, he smiled subtly and spoke in a tone that on some half-hidden level expressed pride in her resistance: "A worthy daughter of the Dynast King. You would do well to go to Giruvegan. You may receive a new stone for your trouble—if you can beat me to it, of course."

His offer distracted them from the guard behind him, who stealthily took from his pocket a piece of magicite and triggered it, launching a blinding array of lights at them. The fantastic explosion of color dimmed in a matter of seconds and soon condensed itself into nothingness, absorbed by the small chunk of artificial nethicite in Penelo's hand. Unfortunately, however, by the time the air cleared, Cid, the guards, and the Atomos had vanished, leaving the group on the lab's roof in a state of considerably confused disappointment. Penelo studied the stone calmly, noting its warmth and shimmer, and Balthier glared at the horizon before shaking his head in defeat.

"I hate it when he does that," he grumbled.

Vaan turned to his sister with a grin. "Aren't you glad I brought you along?"

Penelo responded with a groan, and a deep, eloquent voice sounded from behind them:

"Perhaps you think me remiss…" They turned to see Reddas approaching, a look of rather cordial skepticism on his face. "Princess Ashelia, I take it?"

"Yes," she said with a nod, extending her hand. "And you must be Reddas."

"The one and only," he replied, shaking it. "I wasn't expecting you for quite some time—though I must say I find it a pleasant surprise so far."

"I wasn't aware you were expecting me," she said sharply.

"Lamont told me to keep an eye out for you and one of the Rozarrian princes. He said it may be to my advantage."

"I see."

"So is it?"

She shifted her weight slightly, trying not to regard him as she so often did Balthier. "…I understand you pay Vayne handsomely for your independence."

"That I do," he confirmed with a bold grin.

"Then yes, I may be able to help you."

"Then by all means, allow me to escort you back to Balfonheim—the _Strahl_ is no doubt docked there, yes?" He cast a mischievous glance on Balthier, who rolled his eyes in response.

"Clever and kind," said Ashe, following the Pirate King toward the nearby door that led them back down the stairwell. "Balthier didn't nearly do you justice."

"I'd expect no less of the old boy."

"Oh, God…" Balthier groaned.

They headed down the many staircases, ready to strike if they met opposition, though they found none in light of the recent rampage that had cleared the building. Balthier appeared rather embarrassed, avoiding Ashe and for once taking Fran's lead, but he did not seem distrusting of Reddas, and therefore none took his behavior too seriously.

"I wonder if you'd do us another favor on the way?" the princess went on.

"Gladly, if I'm able," said Reddas.

"We've been told you know a man named Zecht…"

"Damn it, Ashe…" Balthier muttered.

"Zecht?" Reddas replied thoughtfully. "The Judge who once guarded our new emperor?"

"Yes," she answered with a nod. "Could you take us to him? It's very important."

Reddas beamed at this, immediately disregarding the seriousness of her inquest with a bellowing reply and broad smile. "Ha! Take you to him? Certainly, Highness! He is at Nabudis—has been for the last two years. Going on three, I believe. Cold as stone and useful as a hawk without wings. You're free to ask whatever you wish of him, but don't expect any answers."

"Then he _is_ dead?" she asked, more irritated than dejected. "But weren't you doing this for him?"

"You've spoken to Jules, eh? That piece of—your pardon." He shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal, continuing on with more sober a tone. "What I do here, I do to fulfill a promise I made to Zecht on his deathbed, nothing more."

"I see…"

Reddas continued on jovially, but Ashe soon grew aware of Balthier's eyes boring into her, meeting the gesture in an admittedly childish attempt to out glower him.

"What?" she asked in a hushed growl.

He hesitated, glaring at her with what almost looked to be pain in his eyes, and finally whispered, "You scare me sometimes."

Upon reaching the ground floor, they proceeded to the docking bay where Reddas' impressive airship awaited them. Fran noted that it was a Bhujerban model, and the Pirate King regaled them with the tale of how his previous ship had been lost in a great escape, and how he had subsequently stolen the new one and succeeded in outrunning his pursuers with it. He then apologized to Ashelia, assuring her that her uncle had no involvement in the debacle, but when he spoke of his intelligence preventing him from interfering with the intentions of a man so strict as Halim Ondore, he inadvertently implicated himself further.

"How should you know of his strictness?" the princess questioned. "From my experience, his reputation makes him seem too lenient."

Reddas withheld a sigh and smirked subtly. "…I suppose it is useless to lie to Your Highness?"

"And then some," Vaan added.

Ashe returned his smirk, and he began with a heavy tone: "The marquis came to me last week with a proposition. He had heard of my hatred of nethicite and asked if I might help him relieve the Empire of it."

"That is why you are here?" Ashe asked, mildly accusing.

"No, no, Highness," he replied quickly, "not in the least. I told him I would not help him bring such destruction upon Ivalice. But I have no doubt that he will seek out some other means of stealing the Dusk Shard, so I came to beat him to it—with every intention of destroying the nethicite once I get it, I assure you."

"You would really deny yourself such power?"

"I certainly would. When I say I do this for Zecht, I do not mean it as any slight matter. Cid told him the workings of the stone and Vayne ordered him to first steal it and then use it. He killed his own men—every last one of them. Now, granted, I fully believe that Vayne did not know how powerful the nethicite would be, but with this war what it has become, I am certain that Vayne or Emperor Margrace or even Marquis Ondore—if Your Majesty will forgive me—would scarcely hesitate to use nethicite against one another."

"Even knowing what it's capable of?" asked Ashe.

"That is the sentiment I found in your uncle," Reddas replied cautiously.

"Then the marquis—he is set on war?"

He leaned back in the pilot's seat and spoke with a slight sigh as he steered the ship away from the laboratory. "The time approaches when he must make his position vis-à-vis the Empire clear. When he helped you off the _Leviathan_, he spited the Judges full sore; he cannot sit in idleness and expect to avoid a reckoning. The marquis shares my distaste for war, yet if it comes to it, he will show no quarter."

"Don't worry, Princess," Penelo injected. "All we have to do is hold up our end of the deal, remember? There won't be any fighting."

Reddas laughed softly, flashing the girl a warm smile before turning his eyes back to the sky before him. "You must be Monty's little friend."

"Huh?"

"He's full of the same optimism. Let's hope it spreads."

"Optimism may be a great aid," said Ashe, "but it will not be able to prevent this war alone."

"Well…" Vaan speculated, "what if the Resistance can take it? You know, what if they win the fight?"

Balthier resisted rolling his eyes. "Now we've gone from optimism to flat-out foolishness."

"Just trying to help," Vaan defended with a shrug.

"As long the nethicite's in play," said Basch, "the marquis won't stand a chance. It's just what Vayne wants. He'll lure the Rozarrians and the Resistance to the field, then crush them both with the nethicite."

Now Balthier smirked, mustering what cockiness he could while in the presence of the Pirate King. "Lucky for us, Cid has the stone. We can follow him, smash the nethicite to pieces with Raithwall's sword, and relieve Vayne of his secret weapon."

"But Cid's going to Giruvegan," said Vaan.

"We have a map," Balthier answered. "Sort of."

"You really mean to follow that thing?" Ashe scoffed.

"He's survived worse ideas," added Fran.

"We're working with professionals, remember?" Vaan continued with a smile. "And we have to get the nethicite away from the Empire somehow. May as well just start, right? Even if we don't know where we're going, it's better than wasting time."

Ashe gave Vaan a subtle glare that weakly masked her agreement, and Reddas laughed once more.

"Fly first, ask questions later," he said to Balthier with a hint of pride. "The lad is more pirate than you are."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Balthier shot back.

The princess could not see herself made useless—perhaps, she thought, Vaan had been planning on that—and, folding her arms begrudgingly, she tried her best to lighten her expression. "I suppose no real decisions can be made until we know what we have to work with," she admitted. "We'll take our chances with Giruvegan and go from there."

"Willing to act so soon?" Reddas asked.

"You think I shouldn't?" she asked back.

"I hope you will not think it too bold of me to mention, but did you not lose your own husband to nethicite?"

Her eyes narrowed, their steely grey paling like a storm cloud. "Your point?"

"If Doctor Cid has spoken the truth," Reddas continued cautiously, "you may well be rewarded with another stone in Giruvegan…"

"I don't need a lecture."

With this, the princess strode quietly out of the cockpit, Basch following her with a weighty sigh, and Balthier turned to Reddas.

"She won't listen to me, either."

"Of course not," he replied with a grin. "She's not stupid."


	30. Chapter 29

_XXIX._

The momentum slowed and the engines dulled, and Ashe gradually woke. Reddas had seen them back to Balfonheim aboard his own ship and invited them to stay the night, but after witnessing what she had at Draklor, the princess had chosen to go in search of Giruvegan immediately, though she soon discovered that she was indeed in need of rest. Her cortege, however, had learned better than to argue with her, and thus they had flown all night and well into the next day, clumsily following the rough map and constantly coming up empty. The subtle noises of the _Strahl's_ landing routine at last announced their arrival, though she did not know entirely where, and heading into the cockpit, she quickly realized that no one else did, either.

"A floating island," Balthier said in answer to her inquiries.

"Bhujerba?" she asked.

"No. Up north of Archadia, like the on the map. We've mostly been following Fran's nose the last half-hour or so."

The princess turned to Fran, who flicked her ears a bit and shut off the last of the _Strahl's_ power. "Mist is congregating here. It reflects the ocean and the sky, so the island seems invisible."

"We damn near crashed into this bloody rock," Balthier added, stepping into the hall.

The others followed after him, Vaan with unbridled giddiness that served to minimally lighten the atmosphere. Disembarking, they found the island to be made of lavender-hued stone, blue in some areas, white in others, and the air to be dense with chilling Mist that cleared their throats with every breath, but blocked their view after only a few meters.

"…Not quite what I expected," Basch noted.

"Yeah," said Vaan. "What's so scientific about this?"

Fran shook her head with deftly, drawing in a deep breath, and Penelo stepped up with tepid concern.

"What is it, Fran?"

She slowly blinked, surveying what was visible and listening for what was not. "The Mist runs thick here…" she said quietly.

"Like on the _Leviathan_?" Vaan asked.

And at this she smiled airily. "Don't worry. I will behave myself."

"You're not going to go mad on us later on, though?" Ashe pressed.

"This is different," Fran explained. "This Mist is cooled. In all honesty, Princess, I feel that I should be the least of your concerns. I sense something like a shadow here."

"Venat," Balthier all but whispered.

Suddenly the Mist parted, like a clearing amid the thick of a wood, and they saw before them a great stone arch that soared high above their heads, its pearly shine gleaming in the cold sun and its face engraved with ancient runes that bore no meaning to any present.

"Well," Balthier said at length. "That's convenient."

"Whoa…" Vaan ran toward it, Penelo chasing after him warily.

"Vaan, be careful…"

"It's huge!" he exclaimed, proving his observation as he neared the structure. By his estimate, the _Strahl_ could easily fly through it with room to spare. "Who built this?"

"Only the Archadians have been here," said Basch.

"As far as we know," added Ashe.

The others approached the massive stone sculpture while Vaan and Penelo dared to touch it, and then to climb it, though neither got far on the slick surface. It appeared to be hewn of a single stone, and it shone with a fine polish which at times seemed to lend it a crystalline quality that faded with the shifting of the Mist. The inscriptions varied from blocky to curly, from geometric to quill-like. None could determine the purpose of the arch, for the Mist obscured their view of what lied beyond, but it seemed invariably an entryway, as Ashe wandered from the clearing that surrounded it into the clouds of Mist and found sturdy walls on either side.

"Princess," she heard Basch scold from somewhere amid the silvery white ocean.

"I won't go far," she groaned in reply.

"Don't be difficult."

Rolling her eyes while she knew he could not see it, she stepped out into the open beside him. "I thought I was the royal one," she stated, folding her arms.

"All the more reason not to go missing," he replied with a nod.

The Mist closed in behind the group, separating them from the _Strahl_, though not by so great a distance as to garner much worry. Still, though, the others doubled back to the end of the clearing to investigate, leaving Ashelia and Basch alone beside the right leg of the archway.

"Do you think we should turn back?" she asked, watching the others.

"I think we never should have come here," he answered, watching her. "…But you're the royal one." Noticing that she stared not at the group, but solely at Balthier, he continued: "He's been awfully quiet lately."

"It's hard for him."

"Hm." He paused for a moment, studying the gentility of her face and the intensity of her gaze, then asked in a genuinely surprised, yet borderline happy tone, "…Seriously?"

"…What?" She turned to him, eyes wide and voice angry. "No! Don't be ridiculous!"

Suddenly Penelo walked by. "Since when is Basch ridiculous?"

Basch smiled and followed her toward the arch. "Just one of those days, I suppose."

"That can't be good," Vaan added as he passed Ashelia.

She watched silently as they left her, as Balthier's stony expression gave way to his usual cocky disguise upon hearing their calls. Ridiculous. That, she told herself, was exactly the right word. And yet, just as she thought this, Fran neared her side.

"Ridiculous isn't always what it seems," she noted, flicking her ears a bit.

"It is this time," Ashe replied, taking stride after the others.

"Well?" Vaan asked, pawing the ground beneath the entrance. "Are we goin' in?"

Ashe studied him, insignificant and mouse-like beneath the high-rising stone, but nevertheless astonishingly eager to experience the unknown. Penelo appeared leery, tepidly fluttering behind him as she found nervous distraction in playing with her yellow hair, and Basch and Fran both seemed ready to act on orders, equally curious and wary. The princess briefly searched Balthier's eyes, finding well-masked fear and the hope that she would choose more wisely than his father had.

Suddenly she caught movement beyond the archway—a glistening figure, perhaps reflected in the Mist. He wavered slightly, both in presence and in movement, and then turned to face her, as though he had heard her calling out to him, though she felt for sure that she hadn't. Then, as clearly as she had seen him on their wedding day, she recognized Rasler, though his image once again faltered amid the dense fog between them. Fading briefly, he seemed to have disappeared, but she soon spied him once again, more distant, walking away from her as the Mist closed in behind him, concealing the path to him. A far off call sounded—her name, she was sure of it—and she promptly stepped forward, seeking to follow before she lost sight of him completely, though she did as soon as she moved.

"Ashe?" Basch asked.

"Come on," she replied, not bothering to slow her pace or even glance back at him.

"Could be dangerous…" Balthier noted.

Basch shrugged. "Then we can't let her go alone."

"Come on, Balthier," Vaan added giddily. "Princess runs this show, remember?"

"And as always," Balthier replied, "we go out of our way to appease Her Royal Pain in the Highness."

Beyond the great stone entryway, they found a maze of high-walled tunnels, lit by magicite and watched over by ornate carvings that loomed in the dim shadows of the ceiling. Mist wafted through the winding corridors, and condensation glistened on the walls, though no plants grew in its wake. The gleam of the stone matched that of the arch that had welcomed them, though it now seemed natural to the material, for such thick polishing proved a rarity even in the halls of royalty and religion. Ashe thought it similar to her old home, though it likely held even higher value, and could not help be derive subtle comfort from it. Vaan and Penelo chased their reflections on the surface of the walls, occasionally finding no wall where they expected one, but instead a metallic cloud of Mist, which never ceased to stun and then amuse all present.

No trace of any recognizable culture presented itself, keeping all preoccupied with thoughts pertaining to who (or what) could have constructed the grand monument they haplessly navigated, and at what time and to what purpose. They found themselves huddling closer and closer together, though maintaining a distance of courtesy, and even the children slowed their gait so as to remain within eye and ear range of the others. The Mist perpetually blocked their path, and the glow of the magicite often replicated its illusions, giving form to two or three sets of reflections at a time, always vanishing before anyone could grant them thorough study.

"I can't shake the feeling we're not supposed to be here…" Penelo said at length.

"Yeah," answered Vaan. "Kind of exciting."

"Exciting?"

"Come on!" he coaxed. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Hiding behind my sense of caution?" she suggested.

He laughed.

"You are not troubled by the unknown?" asked Fran.

"Not really," Vaan answered. "I kind of like it that way."

"Hm." She turned her eyes forward once more with a subtle smirk. "You might make a fair pirate after all."

"Someone's been keeping track of how we're going to get out of here, right?" Penelo asked.

"Don't worry," said Ashe, thinking at first to expand on the sentiment, but then realizing she did not know how.

"Somehow," said Balthier, "I don't see this ending well for any of us."

"And you think your cynicism is going to help?" asked Basch.

Balthier laughed. "It's never steered me wrong before."

Presently, they came to a solid wall—a dead end, so it seemed—on which there was etched and painted a sprawling mural that depicted many humans prostrated before a great glowing stone held aloft on a pedestal. A man stood before the stone, sword drawn, and they each wondered if the people in the painting indeed bowed to the stone or to the man.

"Is that nethicite?" Ashe asked softly, receiving only worrisome looks in response. She deftly touched her fingers to the wall, tracing them over the carved figure. "With that much…we could…"

"We could destroy all of Ivalice." Fran spoke bluntly, drawing the attention of the others. "If we wished it," she finished after a moment.

"They mine magicite in Bhujerba," said Penelo. "…You think maybe they mine nethicite here?"

"That would explain why the place is bloody empty," Balthier answered.

"Maybe we should go back," Vaan suggested. "I mean, so we can look closer. If this is a mine, we might have missed something."

"It's possible," Ashe replied. "And if not, we may as well turn back anyway. Come on."

And so they inspected the floor and the walls—what they could reach of them—shooing away the Mist to gain a clearer view only to have it sweep back in around them moments later. The princess appeared somewhat dazed, and while the others passed it off on their eerie surroundings, she could swear that she had once again heard her name whispered amid the silvery clouds. It grew more and more distant with each step she took from the mural, echoing off the stone, cutting its path through the Mist, and when she at last decided to return to the dead end, she noticed Basch watching her critically.

"…Are you feeling well?" he asked, clearly hoping not to draw her ire.

"Of course," she answered shortly, walking on after the others.

"You look ill," Basch continued.

"Manners, Captain."

"…This doesn't feel right."

Ashe resisted rolling her eyes once more. "You're being a babysitter again."

"Can you blame me?"

"According to Vaan, you aren't half as cautious on your own."

"Ashe." She paused and met his eyes upon hearing the earnestness of his tone. "Don't forget Nabudis."

After studying his expression for a moment, she wrinkled her nose and walked away, subduing her anger if only for her growing exhaustion of expressing it, but she had barely turned a corner when an invisible grasp seized her by the arm and dragged her through the stone as though it were a vertical pool of water. Beyond the mystical barrier her arm was released, and she stood seemingly on the clouds, though she felt beneath her feet a pulsating energy. Around her vast puffs of Mist swirled, reflecting her image back to her with sometimes hazy, sometimes precise accuracy, and the sun struggled to press its way through, lending a gleaming powder blue sheen to her vague surroundings. She glanced over her right shoulder, and next over her left, but found herself to indeed be unaccompanied.

"Where is everyone?" she called dumbly.

The Mist billowed, and suddenly a trembling voice resonated from the distance: "Fear not, princess of Dalmasca." She spun on her heel, but could find nothing. "We have chosen you and you alone."

At last, a figure shimmered among the clouds, elusive as the skin of a bubble, and yet solid as the trunk of an oak. Ashelia stepped back as a ray of sun filtered through the creature and danced at her feet, then stumbled over what she intended to be a demand. "…Wh—who…"

"My name is Gerun." The voice floated past her ears unevenly, neither male nor female, weak nor strong. She shuddered. "I come to you representing all others who are as myself. You and other humans have called us gods, but we call ourselves Occuria, for we have named all others in Ivalice and will not be named in turn by them."

"Gods?" Ashe asked.

"Calm your doubts, Ashelia; we offer you our assistance. One of our kind works alongside your enemy—one named Venat. Doctor Cid follows blindly what he perceives to be divine instruction, and this has led to turmoil in Ivalice. Through you, we intend to make right these wrongs."

"You…you've done this before, haven't you? It was you who aided Raithwall in the last war."

"Yes, very good. Unfortunately, his reign has not lasted. We see your heart desires power, and power most holy shall we grant. Seek you the Sun Cryst, our slumbering star—in tower on distant shore, it dreams. The mother of all nethicite…the source of its unending power. The Dynast King's fallow shards were but coarse trinkets cut from the Sun Cryst's light."

She took a quick step forward, but soon quelled her excitement. "Such power exists?"

"In times that are long passed away," Gerun explained, "we thought to save this Ivalice, and chose Raithwall, the noblest of humans. He took the sword and cut the Cryst. Three shards he took from its gilt grasp, and so became the Dynast King. His words and deeds run through your veins."

"That's why I was given his sword…"

"The treaty held with kings of old is but a memory, cold and still. With you, we shall now treat anew, to cut a run for history's flow."

Mist gathered before her, gaining density and taking shape. There momentarily appeared a sword of elegant design and alien décor, which hovered within her grasp, though she felt uneasy at the thought of touching it.

Gerun's glistening voice sounded onward: "Now take this sword, our treaty blade—Occurian steel, mark of your worth. Cut deep the Cryst, and seize your shards. Wield the Dynast King's power, and use it to destroy Venat."

"But…" Ashe stuttered, unable to gain steady control of her tongue. "…Isn't Venat an Occurian?"

"Venat is a heretic!"

And she quickly jumped back once again, squinting her eyes shut against the gale of wind Gerun's outburst forced over her.

"The nethicite is ours to give, to chosen bearer or to none. The heretic trespassed, and set the rose of knowledge in man's hands. With imitations, they profane. It is anathema to us! We give you now the stone and task. Administer judgment: destroy them all."

"Judgment?"

Ashelia's brow furrowed, though she fought to conceal her emotions from this creature, and the mist once again assembled, this time behind the sword, this time taking a human form. Her eyes grew cold as Rasler's empty image shimmered before her, fleeting in its presence, but always returning faintly just as she thought it had vanished. The blade between them flickered.

"A great purge of those who would let foolish men have dominion over our Ivalice," Gerun continued, golden eyes swirling with light. "You shall do as King Raithwall once did—destroy those who oppose your superior rule, and replace them with more suitable houses."

"The Empire?" Ashe asked, eyes set on Rasler.

"When House Rozarria refused Raithwall's treaty, they were cut down that House Margrace might serve in their stead. When House Archadia sought to defend the Rozarrian rebels, they were crushed, and their throne given to House Solidor."

"…What?"

"You take your history from the pages of books—from the words of mortals. We have lived our history. Only in us does the truth reside."

"Then you would have me reforge the Galtean Alliance?"

"Reforge and strengthen—for the good of all humans. The Houses of Margrace and Solidor are shamed—blasphemous. Their blood must be spent, and their inheritance returned to its rightful proprietor: you, our chosen representative, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, the Dynast Queen."

"But why destroy them?" she asked, gaining use of her voice only to lose control of her words. "Every line has a weak link. Is that really enough to—"

"It is more than enough!" Gerun snarled. "The houses must be extinguished. Dalmasca shall know no borders—truly, in time, Ivalice will come to be known solely as Dalmasca. Rozarria drew war across your land. Archadia stole away your freedom. What they have done will be done to them. Disthrone the royals, ravage them with your limitless power, and take their land for your own."

Ashelia grit her teeth. "You would have me lower myself to such measures?"

"Lower?" the Occuria scoffed, it black lacquer body gleaming in the sunlight. "Lower yourself to save humanity? Differing countries bring only violence to each other—you know this well. You will rule them as one country, follow in Raithwall's footsteps, bring peace to Ivalice."

"…Then it is for the good of all?"

"Indeed." The voice grew gentler, contemplative, and the dark, detail-starved figure among the puffs of Mist from which it came wavered in its solidity. "The humans ever skew history's weave. With haste, they move through too-short lives. Driven to err by base desires, toward waste and wasting on they run. Undying, we Occuria light the path for wayward sons of man. Oft did we pass judgment on them, so that Ivalice might endure. We are history's eternal stewards, to set the course and keep it true. The chosen is our hand—our fist, to let live some and crush the rest. Princess, you have been chosen. Take revenge against those who stole your kingdom. Fulfill your role as savior. Attain to your birthright."

She blinked slowly, fighting the mesmerizing effect the Mist took on her, and once again cast her glance to the shimmering image of her husband. A smile, it seemed, overcame his expression—the look of a brewing plot in their youth—but the mirage fluttered and faded, not disappearing, but certainly not taking permanence. Ashelia reached out her hand, failing to notice the absence of her wedding ring, and took the hilt of the Mist-born sword. Rasler vanished in a wisp of Mist. And then she felt the nakedness of her finger.

"Ashe!"

She turned suddenly, feeling the whip of her short hair against her neck, and found Vaan charging up to her.

"What's with these Occuria things?" he demanded. "What gives them the right to tell you what to do?"

Looking back over her shoulder, she found no trace of Gerun, noticing instead that the Mist that had so suddenly enveloped her quickly dissipated at her feet, dissolving into the stonework of the weakly throbbing floor beneath them. No walls fended off the noon sunlight, and the cobbled platform on which they stood appeared to be held aloft by nothing of mortal construct, though she did spy a staircase at the far end of it, from whence the others came toward her.

"Will you take revenge, as it asks?" Fran asked.

Ashe's eyes widened with confusion, and she turned to Basch for an answer.

"We could not see it," he explained, "but we heard it speak."

"You're not gonna do it, right Ashe?" Penelo chirped. "I mean—you can't!"

"Like hell she can't!" Vaan injected. "This is it—we've practically got Dalmasca back already!"

"What?" Basch asked, clearly shocked by the boy's sudden bloodlust. "They may be gods, but we are the arbiters of our destiny. The Empire must pay, but destruction?"

"Perhaps a compromise," said Fran. "Not total destruction, just the threat of it?"

"That's just as bad," Penelo whined.

"All it would take is a demonstration on Vayne," Vaan defended in response.

Penelo lowered a piercing glare on him. "And Monty!"

Finally, Balthier stepped in, conspicuously close to the princess's side. "Hey, she's the one it wanted to talk to; why don't we just let her decide?"

Ashe's eyes fell to the blade in her hands, and she faintly chewed her lip in indecision before Balthier spoke up again:

"No need to rush, anyway. We've officially screwed ourselves over for the time being."

"What?" asked Vaan.

"We beat Doctor Cid here!" Penelo added.

"He's not coming," Balthier replied. "Never was. He laid out the bait, and we bit. All that flaunting back at the lab, just to bring Ashe to the Occuria. Cocky old bastard."

"But if we get a hold of the nethicite, wouldn't that be bad for the Empire?" Vaan asked.

"How do we know he's in this for the Empire?" Balthier pondered aloud. "Maybe he wants to see what happens when foes with nethicite collide. That would be just like him."

"His motives don't matter at this point," said the princess. "We must first search out the Sun Cryst, right?"

"Is that a question?" Fran asked.

Ashe grit her teeth.

"How are we to find it if all we have to go on is a 'tower on a distant shore?'" Basch injected, noting the princess's mood.

"Maybe we can go back to Reddas for help," Penelo suggested with a perky hop.

Balthier huffed a small laugh. "I'd rather stay out of that pirate's debt, thank you."

"What's wrong with him?" Vaan asked. "I mean, if you can't trust your own kind, who can you trust?"

"You're an expert on pirating now, are you?" Balthier scoffed. "I owe him enough as it is—and this may get him more involved than he cares to be."

"Well, that's his problem, isn't it?" Ashe snapped, turning to walk away with Basch and the kids at her heels.

Fran smirked at Balthier and followed the others, he a step behind.


	31. Chapter 30

_XXX._

Lamont had more or less settled, but still behaved oddly on occasion. Nightmares plagued him, and he often woke Gabranth in the middle of the night for assurance, though he had become too prideful to admit it. Normally, this was Vayne's job, but as he had now become the subject of most of the offending dreams, his reassurance did little to help. Monty had gone to him only once, and, unable to reveal the whole of the vision, had leaned sadly into his brother's side and whimpered, "I don't want you to die." Vayne himself had numerous nightmares after that.

Monty had also taken to sitting before his father's tomb for a good twenty minutes or so each day, and had for some reason begun to regard his brothers' graves with sullen gazes as well. Vayne had gone to fetch him for dinner one evening, and in passing found fresh flowers before the headstones of both empresses—his mother's and Monty's—but decided against bringing it up. That night, after ensuring that Monty slept soundly, he returned to the cemetery alone and apologized to the empresses as formally as he could—to his mother for all the pain he had caused her, and to Monty's for all the pain he had caused her little boy.

About a week after this, Vayne had come to the lab to find Lamont cradling a white rat protectively against his chest while Cid tried to coax him into giving it up for experimentation. At first, Vayne had joined in the attempt, but he later conceded to promising the boy that no harm would come to the rat. A pang of agony ripped through his heart when his brother still refused. In the end, the rat bit him, causing him to drop it, and then it quickly scampered off into the complex piping of the facility, never to be seen again. To Monty, this was a victory. Neither of them had visited the lab since.

Just when Vayne thought that his brother had returned to normal, he began to raise questions regarding the war in all its aspects. A boy of no more than ten, so interested in the art of killing, so eager to take part in a war—Vayne felt as though the very thought would be the death of him. He had seen Monty fence—he had taught him most of what he knew and sparred with him on more occasions than he could count—but that had all been in play. This war had no place for children, but Lamont would not be so easily convinced that he was a child, and even so would not allow himself to be excluded from any matter that so wholly devoured his brother's attention.

What proved worse was Monty's skill in the subject. He never failed to come up with a brilliant tactic or at the very least an admirable suggestion when Vayne would entertain his interest, and this talent covered both battle and politics, much to the emperor's detriment. He no longer felt sure that the boy would become distracted with some other fancy, and worried that his plans for Monty's future may soon be rendered useless if this fascination continued.

On Monty's end, he had not yet reached the age to deem what he had taken up as political intrigue, but he did certainly know what it was that he did day in and day out. In keeping close to Vayne, he kept close to Ashelia, and learning his brother's tendencies in warfare gave him the upper hand where both diplomats were concerned. He remained steadfast in his insistence that he would not take up politics to any extent greater than necessary, but he would not see his country further affronted in this war, even if such a reputation granted it ultimate power. The events of the past few weeks had stirred an unfortunate awakening within him—not only in terms of government, but of people in general—and now that he knew what the world was capable of, he felt sure that it was up to him to fix it, and felt determined that with a little hard work, he could right his family's wrongs.

He had been especially upset to learn that Drace was not given the proper burial afforded all other Judges. It was written clearly in Archadia's law that those executed for treason were not to be granted marked graves, for their very memory served as an insult to the country, but Gabranth eventually confided in Monty that he and Zargabaath had seen her laid to rest beneath an oak tree on a nearby hill overlooking a meadow. Monty had insisted on seeing it, and so Gabranth led him to it late one night without Vayne's knowledge, and let him inspect the fresh soil and memorize the position of the tree. Neither of them gave any mention to the heart carved in its trunk.

Lately, Monty had taken notice of the second sword at Vayne's hip. He did not know why exactly his brother carried their father's sword around, but he feared that no explanation would serve in any way to ease Vayne's increasingly troubled mind. In truth, he still struggled to move past the relief that overcame him upon hearing word of Bergan's demise, for he had dreaded putting Vayne off Balthier's trail. Bergan had been something of a friend, after all—he had taught Monty much of battle strategy, as well as how to effectively interpret the ever-grim expressions of the Senators. But Monty knew he could not let every event that came to pass hinder his progress with his brother. He had set sufficiently confining boundaries without the emperor's knowledge, but Vayne would not follow the path Monty cleared for him without guidance, and Vayne hated passionately being told what to do. Unfortunately, Monty soon found himself with no other choice, and now, some time after the sun set, he stood at his brother's side before the great windows of the throne room, arguing with the emperor solely because he found it both more effective and more dignified than pleading.

"Make amends with Lady Ashelia and restore Dalmasca's sovereignty," he insisted, trying hard not to sound so adorable in his precociousness. "It's the only way to avert war."

Vayne sighed, gazing out into the courtyard below with weary, exasperated eyes. "It is a war of necessity—your Lady Ashelia is bent on it. She will not rest until her revenge is full-wrought."

"I don't think she will take revenge," Monty replied, staring up at him, knowing that he could convince him if only he'd grant him more than a fleeting moment of eye-contact. "She is harsh, I know, but she's compassionate, too. She understands remorse—she'll accept an apology."

"Perhaps she will," Vayne admitted, "but her people won't be so understanding."

"That's why you have to do it soon. If you blame Father for the occupation and publicly declare that you intend to make right his wrongs, they'll see Archadia in an entirely new light."

"They'll see it as weakened."

"They'll see it as dignified."

Vayne sighed. "You are young, Monty."

Monty smiled. "And you're presumptuous."

A sigh sounded behind them, and they both turned to Cid, who had for the past half hour been doing his best to keep such interactions at bay. "Will you two give it a rest?" he asked. "It's a heavy sight—brothers fighting."

"We're not fighting," they replied in unison.

"Monty," he went on, "I thought you hated politics…"

"Not at all," the boy answered, stepping away from Vayne. "It's just that there are so many more important things."

"Not lately, eh?"

He smiled shyly, glancing to the floor, but said nothing.

"I don't see what you two think you will accomplish by depriving me of still more sleep," said Vayne, taking slow strides toward the center of the room. "We've got the world right where we want it. The Resistance is hopeless and Bhujerba will go peacefully once the marquis is taken care of."

"But can we handle war with Rozarria?" asked Cid. "We may have a good deal of power, but our dear conquered subjects will defect the first chance they get."

While Vayne took up the argument once more, Monty stared somewhat blankly out the window, pondering how he would corner his brother into agreement without earning his distrust. The flutter of a swan's wing caught his attention briefly, for many of them floated elegantly in a pond down in the darkened courtyard. There was something about the movement—the sudden rambunctious feistiness that quickly reverted back to sleek-feathered grace—that reminded him of Penelo. Vayne seemed to make a valid point in the conversation—that Archadia had driven many lands into submission before, and had only grown in power since then—and Lamont found his break.

"The power isn't worth the reputation," he explained with an optimistic calmness that seemed to instantly settle the atmosphere. "Everybody's afraid of us—if your control lapses for even a moment, we'll be a prime target."

"But that fear," Vayne countered, "is the only thing that keeps me in control."

"We have Father to blame for that," Monty replied. "At least you should have no trouble convincing them we do."

"True," he admitted, "but I can't afford to rely solely on the trust of my people until this war has been won."

"I don't think it's possible to win a war." There was a pause as Vayne and Cid looked on him uncomprehendingly, and he clarified: "I think every war is a loss. As much as I regret Father's death, it's left you with a great opportunity."

"I can't just blame everything on him," Vayne sighed.

"Why not?" Monty pressed. "They don't call him 'Gramis the Conqueror' for nothing."

Vayne shook his head, though he secretly felt a prideful pang of amusement at his brother's cleverness. "Cid?" he asked. "A little help here?"

"Sorry, Highness," Cid said with a smile. "I think Monty's on to something. Rozarria is scared witless of you; if you put Archadia in a less powerful position, this ever-looming war might die down."

"Or they'll just take us for all we're worth," Vayne groaned.

"Not if the princess sides with us," Cid replied. "She stands to rule Dalmasca and Nabradia. If they trust us, we won't need to continue the occupation."

"Why have servants when you can have friends, right?" added Monty.

Vayne eyed the boy carefully, trying perhaps a bit too hard to sum up his motivation. "…You're using her," he said at last.

Lamont smiled. "No more than she's using me." At this, Vayne cast a gaze on him that seemed to waver between shock and respect, but Monty cared little, reverting back to the more important issue. "Look. A major component of the Nalbina treaty was that you marry her, so you can start by throwing that part out and then move on to more political matters. It will take some sucking up, but you can gain her trust eventually."

"It's the 'political matters' that worry me," said Vayne. "She has no reason to cooperate with me, and simply breaking off some trumped up engagement isn't going to give her one."

"Slow down, Vayne," Cid interceded. "I'm sure he's thought that out, too."

"Flattering sarcasm, Cid," said Monty.

"I pride myself on it," he replied.

"One of her biggest problems right now," Monty continued, "is freeing Dalmasca without leaving Nabradia behind. She needs that alliance more than anything."

Vayne raised a skeptical eyebrow, but tried not to come across as offensive. "You want me to release them both?"

"No. I want you to release them both _and_ Landis." Lamont quickly felt the sing of his brother's waning attention and explained: "If you free Dalmasca and Nabradia, Landis will ally with them immediately, and it's only a matter of time before Rozarria joins in. By setting them all free at once, they all have reason to remain on good terms with Archadia and stay away from Rozarria."

"Allies?" Vayne asked.

He nodded. "Exactly. You could start by reinstating the Senate. Have all new members elected while we still hold occupation. That way we could legally have representatives of all three territories on hand to discuss our withdrawal, and when it's all said and done, you can restore Archadia as an independent nation. If you keep up appearances, you can work it in your favor."

"Tell them we are dependent on our occupied territories? Do you really think they'll fall for it?"

"Politics is just a bunch of lies anyway, isn't it?"

"And you condone this?"

"If it's for the greater good." Vayne again looked him over critically, and this time Monty took notice of it: "What? I've never disappointed you before?"

"Never like this."

"I guess that's why you're Emperor and I'm not."

At this, the great doors at the end of the room opened quietly, spilling a yellow stream of light across the dim floor that was quickly blocked as Gabranth entered. "Forgive my interruption, Majesties," he said with a short nod of respect, "but bedtime was half an hour ago."

Monty smirked. "That might be a factor as well."

This got a laugh out of Cid and a small smile out of Vayne, but it was clear that Lamont would not be leaving until some resolution was met, so Vayne spoke up once more: "Ah, Gabranth. You always have perfect timing." Gabranth shifted a bit, and Vayne cast his gaze back to Monty. "The princess may well be using your trust for her own gain. I would enact your plan only if I was certain otherwise."

"What are you suggesting?" the young lord asked hopefully.

"You trust Gabranth, don't you?"

"Of course."

Gabranth gulped with well-hidden uncertainty.

"Then send him to be the eyes of the Empire," Vayne went on.

Monty cocked his head curiously. "…What?"

"A young royal she might think easy to take advantage of, but a Judge will put her in her place."

"Threaten her, you mean."

"Well, that too."

"She'll maintain her position; she's not afraid of us or the Judges."

"Then what harm could it deal?"

A moment of hesitation settled, and Monty's voice briefly seemed unnervingly childlike: "…Will this convince you she is honest?"

"In all likelihood, yes," Vayne assured him.

"Then you leave me no choice."

"Very well, then." The emperor turned once more to Gabranth. "Gabranth, I would have you seek after the Lady Ashelia as soon as possible to adjudge whether she makes overtures of peace or war. Should you espy peace, you will arrange a meeting between she and I to discuss the release of her country from occupation; if not, you will defend Archadia as your oaths have instructed you."

"It will not come to that, I'm sure," Monty added quickly. "I have faith in her—faith in you both."

"As you will," Gabranth sighed. "Now, if you're quite finished here…"

"Right. Sorry." Monty shook his head and turned to Vayne. "Goodnight, Brother."

"Goodnight."

He smiled slightly and headed for the doors, nodding to Cid in passing. "Cid."

Cid returned the gesture. "Monty."

As the boy left at Gabranth's side, Cid noticed with both concern and intrigue the look of abandonment on Vayne's face, which escalated into a brief wince as the great doors shut.

"No hug?" Cid asked.

Vayne blinked once, but kept his gaze fixed on the doors that separated him from his brother. "Not since Father passed."

"_Passed_, eh?" Cid replied with a small huff of bemusement. "Hm. That so sweet a child could be your brother is hard to believe."

"Monty is as he should be, and he'll remain so as long as I have any say in it."

"Which won't be long, by the look of things."

Now Vayne clasped his hands behind his back and set his jaw tightly, and said in a low tone, "Yes, he is becoming difficult…"

"Well, you'd best brace yourself," Cid warned almost merrily. "Another year or two and he'll be impossible."

"This is normal, right?"

"Oh, certainly. Maybe not so young, but Monty's always been a little ahead of his time."

"A little?" Vayne scoffed. "He's ten years old, and already he's running off with girls and questioning every authority figure he encounters!"

"He's growing up," Cid reasoned.

"He's too young to grow up!" Vayne argued.

"Or you just don't want him to. Look at it this way, Vayne: as a child, he thought you were perfect, and now he's realizing you're not. You'll know he's an adult when he forgives you for it."

"And if he runs away again—what does that make him?"

"A pirate, in my experience."

Releasing a groan, the emperor wearily raised a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and rubbing them. "…I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong here. I have sheltered him from everything and still he is more loyal to his bodyguard than to his blood."

"That should be fixed upon Gabranth's return," Cid assured him with a shrug.

Vayne suppressed a sigh. "And if not, I've always got the Nalbina card ready to play."

It truly pained him to say such things, but he could not trust Monty's well-being to one who would betray his own brother—he could not trust Monty's well-being to anyone. And yet, as time passed, he grew to fear the day the boy would take charge of his own life, leaving Vayne powerless to protect him, though even in adulthood he may still need it.

With an empire under his command, he had no time to spare on contemplating how urbane his little brother had grown as of late, and yet for the majority of his waking hours, he could focus his thoughts on nothing else. In the past month, Lamont had begun to resemble his eldest brother more than Vayne, and his grandfather more than Gramis. At heart, Vayne recognized this as a good thing, but he nevertheless dreaded the possibility of one day finding himself at irreconcilable odds with Monty, and took comfort only in his certainty that the boy struggled with the same worry. Yet to some extent, the situation currently operated in reverse, for while neither brother expressed any serious disagreement, they had come to continually seek out the other's approval, each striving to become worthy of the esteem his brother heaped upon him.

"Still, though," Vayne went on, "what more can I do for him? All the power in the world—why can't I fix that?"

"Sometimes it's best to just do nothing," Cid advised him. "It's an unfortunate fact about other people: you can't control them."

Vayne shook his head. "I just don't want him to get hurt because of me."

"He won't," Cid assured him. "You can't let this distract you. We've got bigger fish to fry."

He nodded, but could not conceal his worry. He had gotten by this far, though, his brother growing, regaining his wounded happiness; his father's sword at his side, ever consoling him that he was not the worst tyrant House Solidor had set forth. Though the process proved slow, things had gotten better, and it looked as though they would continue to improve if he minded them appropriately.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to join the search for our princess," he said with a bitter sigh.

Cid smiled. "She'll lead us straight to the Sun Cryst, after all."

"Then I hope you will do me a favor and keep watch on Gabranth—see that he does as he's been told."

"You sure know how to have a good time, Vayne."

Noting the subdued groan beneath his words, Vayne bit back his exhaustion and shook his head faintly. "Just see that the princess gets what she's earned."

"And the nethicite?" Cid asked.

"What you will."

"Hmph. You're beginning to sound like your father."

"Oh, don't say that…" he groaned, and Cid continued:

"I know you're sore about Monty, but you've got to focus on your country right now. Nethicite is our only advantage—we can't let her use it against us."

"I realize how important it is to you," Vayne explained, "but the paranoia is really becoming too high a price for a mere weapon. Monty was right—the more they fear us, the harder they'll try to destroy us."

"Is your mind really changed so easily?"

"We can hardly even use it, Cid. You saw what happened in Nabudis. Magicite may not be as powerful, but it's at least predictable."

"And widely available," Cid scoffed. "I see your point, though, and I assure you there's no need for concern. I've already figured out how to contain it; now it's just a matter of building big enough canons to have some real effect. I wouldn't have wasted so much of your time and money on this endeavor if I hadn't been certain of its pay-off. Like Venat always says, 'What good a power that cannot be harnessed?'"

Vayne rolled his eyes with a sigh. "And what does Venat have to say about the Sun Cryst?"

"She thinks it's a blessing and a curse. Whoever controls that blasted rock controls the one we live on." He paused, noticing the dubious glare that the emperor now gave him, and with a shrug asked, "What?"

"…I—didn't know Venat was a _she_," Vayne said slowly.

"Well, she's not," he explained, "but she doesn't take kindly to being called _it_, so back when we first met, we just flipped a coin and let bygones be bygones."

"Right…"

Cid smiled warmly, ignoring the brief, doubtful squint in Vayne's eyes. "You know, she's grown quite fond of you over the years. You should talk to her once in a while."

"No, thank you," said Vayne.

Suddenly, Cid turned, looking to his side and turning slowly as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the empty air. "…Oh, good! We were just talking about you." Another pause ensued, Vayne knowing better than to interrupt, and at length the doctor, an approving expression lighting his face, continued. "…Ah, taken the bait already, have they? Splendid." He looked to Vayne. "The princess has been given her treaty blade. Once Venat takes it from her, it will be yours."

"And how exactly is Venat going to do this?" he asked tiredly.

"Honestly, Vayne, why must you let everything trouble you so much? She hasn't led us wrong yet, has she?"

"What is it with you? Are you afraid of success? You don't have to attribute everything to the voices in your head…"

He trailed off then, noting a faint disturbance in the air between them. A flutter disrupted the darkness, and a figure appeared as if only a reflection in the black depths of a lake. Translucent flashes occasionally denoted the surface of the creature, but at no point could the entirety of its being be seen, and only the dim glow of its eyes made its face visible amid the shadows that engulfed it, ever in motion, swirling and thickening like a Mist devoid of light.

"In my head?" Cid scoffed. "Honestly, you're just like Balthier."

"…Cid," Vayne questioned slowly, stepping back and placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, somehow fearing the use of his father's. "…What is that?"

A second of confusion passed before Cid's eyes widened gleefully and he stepped closer to Vayne's side, looking on the shimmering Occuria with deep interest. "…You can see her?"

"Fondest greetings, Highness," the figure rasped chillingly. "I do hope you'll forgive my distrust of you before this night—it is through unyielding caution, after all, that I have manifested our dreams all these years."

Vayne stepped back, his expression muddled with alarm, confusion, and utter disbelief. "…Venat?"

Cid smiled and slapped Vayne on the back. "Well, it's about time!"

"I am no cause for fear," the creature assured him. "This may be our first meeting, but we have long been allies in this war."

"Without her to lead us," Cid added, "Monty and I would never have made such progress in such time."

"You talk to Monty?" Vayne asked more quickly than he intended.

"No," she answered calmly, "though not for any offense on his part. For all his intelligence, your brother is too skeptical, though I feel that a wondrous boon to his gift for free thought. He would not trust my advice."

"She's been using me as her mouthpiece," said Cid. "Balthier wasn't too fond of it, but Monty's a little more open-minded."

"Alas," Venat agreed, "that such genius should be marred by such willful independence."

Vayne's eyes darkened, his hand at his sword eased but unmoved. "Then you find Monty's genius more attractive for his willful compliance?"

"More for his curiosity," she said, shifting subtly between translucent and opaque and at last settling on a blend of the two. "I would not find compliance in him attractive, even if I might find it at all."

"Either way," Vayne insisted, "I want him left out of this. He'll have nothing to do with it anymore as it is."

Something like a sigh entered her genderless voice—something soothing, that coaxed trust in spite of its haggard undertones. "Do not let the boy trouble you. He means well, but he is simply too naive to fully understand his actions. He will be disappointed to hear of the princess's true intent, but it is a lesson he must learn, and one you have arranged to teach him in a most sympathetic manner. You are as perfect a brother as any could hope for."

Vayne regarded her distrustfully, his deep chestnut eyes sliding over her form with persistent suspicion, but his hand at last fell slowly from the hilt of his sword. "…I—can only hope you're right, I'm afraid."

"She always is," Cid stepped in jovially. "Venat's given us the edge that we've always needed—that we've always deserved!"

"No," Venat protested in a deceptively pleasant hum, "the power of manufactured nethicite is the power of man—a weapon forged by his wisdom who would challenge the gods themselves. A fitting blade for a true Dynast King. My council did but guide your able hand."

"Dynast King?" Vayne asked.

"Raithwall did but pretend the title—a cur begging scraps from his master's table. You on the Imperial throne, Ivalice now hails her true ruler. You, Vayne, shall defy the will of the gods, and see the reigns of history back in the hands of man. The new Ivalice holds no place for the name Dalmasca. The stain of Raithwall's blood shall be washed clean from history's weave."

"Quite the flatterer, isn't she?" Cid added with a grin.

"I allot only what praise is deserved," Venat replied. "Through power of man, the stones did you perfect—so much accomplished in six fleeting years: man's fervor over all obstacles prevailing."

"Our lives are much too short," said Cid. "You undying may waste long centuries away, but we, I fear, are bound by much shorter leashes."

"Just so," Vayne added, "had we more time, we might have availed ourselves of more prudent measures…"

Cid laughed slightly, gripping the emperor's shoulder with fatherly pride. "Your greatest work still lies before you. Not lightly will the Occuria allow you to steal the reigns of history back from them."

"Indeed," Venat agreed. "What claim does Gerun have on history's reigns, seated on throne immortal, rent from time?"

Vayne shook his head, noting with deep-rooted fear the tremble in his hands, the slithering discomfort in his spine. "But…you're one of them?"

Venat fluttered slightly, a ripple of consciousness against the very air that Vayne breathed. "By birth alone, I assure you," she said softly, fading from vision into the shadows. "For your ascendance, Vayne, I offer prayer. May you attain all that which is your due. For too long have your deeds gone unrewarded."


	32. Chapter 31

Just barely finished this on time. School is killing me.

_XXXI._

Ashelia remained alone in the cabin for the entire journey, quietly refusing to partake of conversation or meals with her companions. Though a heavy choice now awaited her, she found peace in neither Raithwall's sword nor Gerun's, but instead only in the time-worn blade that Azelas had entrusted to her. She took it from its sheath and traced the lettering with her delicate fingers, and all at once the stress melted into temporary oblivion, and she could remember vividly the days when her parents lived, when she and Rasler would wreak havoc on the palace, when Azelas would pretend to scold her before the rest of the cortege, then congratulate her on a job well-done in private. This made the trek easier, though she knew that she could not escape her responsibilities, and she slept until they neared land, at which point the hum of the engines slowing gently woke her. Oddly, she realized then for the first time that when the war ended—for better or for worse—she would dearly miss the _Strahl_.

By dusk they reached Balfonheim, where they found the greater population—the seapirates, it seemed—in a chaotic state of panic, and Reddas in his office barking orders at his assistants:

"Don't just stand there, lads! All ships in the water!"

"All?"

"Yes, all! Send fishing dories if need be! And leave what boats have foundered. I want souls saved, not driftwood."

"Aye, sir!"

As the last of the pirates scrambled out of sight, Reddas took notice of Ashelia and her cortege lingering in the doorway and explained himself with an exhausted sigh: "Our armada ran afoul of bad water near the Ridorana Cataract. All engines stopped asudden—trouble with a thick Mist, it seems."

Fran folded her arms. "Your luck would be reversed if you would entrust it to nethicite-powered airships."

Balthier and Vaan couldn't help but smirk, and Reddas regarded her with a slightly jealous admiration. "Reversed and multiplied if I had entrusted it to a Viera," he replied, getting a smile out of Fran. "But what matter?" he went on. "Magicite engines are as good to us now as sky to a fish. Tell me what happened in Giruvegan. By the lay of your eyes, I measure all did not go well."

"You can say that again," Vaan groaned.

"Cid—was he false, as I feared?"

"Yes," said Ashe. "But we may have caught a glimpse of his true intent."

"Let me guess: something pertaining to a tower on a distant shore."

Ashe's eyes turned suspicious. "…How did you know?"

"Ha! So quick to action, you can't help but expect to miss out on the details. Tell me first your source, and if I think it should help, then I shall reveal mine."

"Just like old times," Balthier mumbled.

"We met a—creature of some kind," Ashe explained with an irritated sigh. "It called itself Gerun, and said it represented a race called the Occuria. It told us of the origins of nethicite—a stone called the Sun Cryst. King Raithwall cut the shards from it to bring peace to Ivalice in his time, and the Occuria have asked that I now do the same."

"Peace through nethicite?" Reddas scoffed, leaning against his desk. "Through the most powerful source of violence we know?"

Ashe clenched her teeth and turned her eyes to the floor.

"We are skeptical as well," said Basch. "They say peace can only be achieved if both empires are conquered and their royal houses wiped out."

"They want her to kill Monty!" Penelo clarified.

"It's more than just that," said Vaan. "They said if Ashe becomes the ruler of Ivalice, there won't be any more war…We'll all get along."

"By force, I'm sure," Reddas corrected. "Don't you realize what this means? The deifacted nethicite was only a fragment. It's power was only a fraction of a far greater whole. And these Occuria—I know nothing of them, and care to know even less. Surely such strength is not meant to be controlled by mortals."

Fran placed a hand on her hip and spoke sullenly. "We are inclined to agree, but we can see no other way. We think the Sun Cryst is the source of all nethicite's power. If we might break it with Raithwall's sword, no new stone may be born, and the Dusk Shard would be spent after one use—powerless for many lifetimes. As for the manufactured nethicite, who can say?"

"There is another way," Balthier added. "We use Gerun's sword to cut a new stone from the Cryst—use that to fight the Dusk Shard _and_ the manufactured stones—then just stop short of world domination and use Raithwall's sword to send the Sun Cryst back to hell where it belongs."

"Hmm…" Reddas rested his chin in his hand, smoothing his beard thoughtfully. "All this talk of fighting…Already the nethicite influences your minds."

"Nonsense," Ashe growled. "Whichever route we take, it will end with the destruction of all nethicite."

"Will it, now? You favor the second choice, then, is that it? Destroy the Empire, then destroy the nethicite? What madness leads you to think you will truly follow such a path?"

"Do you deliberately mock me or can you just not help it?"

"A little of both, I suppose."

Vaan stepped in before the bickering could escalate. "Either way, we have to find the Sun Cryst first. 'Tower on a distant shore,' remember?"

"Now there I can help you," Reddas replied. "I saw something similar at Draklor: the Naldoan Sea, the Ridorana Cataract, and the Pharos Lighthouse. I sent my fleet to fish out the truth behind these words, and caught nothing but trouble."

"Then you think this lighthouse on the Naldoan Sea is our tower on a distant shore?" asked Basch, placing a hand on Ashelia's shoulder to calm her.

"Aye," replied Reddas, "but mind you I have thought wrong in the past."

"But this time you've got Cid's backing," Balthier commented dismally.

"The Mist that becalmed your ships is a grimmer, yet clearer sign than any we might hope for," Basch added with a nod. "Whether the Sun Cryst is there or not, it is surely a reliable starting point."

"Then we will set out immediately," Ashe replied.

"Not so fast," said Reddas. "The sun has already fallen. If you are to go in search of such power, you must do so with a clear head." Ashe glowered at him once more, but rather than match it, he gave her a conceding smirk and continued: "Stay your glares, Highness, I beg you. I meant no offense. On the contrary, I insist you stay here for the night. I can offer you far better room and board than Balthier can, I assure you."

Ashe cast a sideward glance to Balthier, who nodded his approval, and then stonily returned her gaze to Reddas. "If you insist."

Despite her instinctive assumptions given his occupation and demeanor, Reddas proved a most pleasant host, having clearly been bred of Archadian aristocracy and well aware of the honor provided in entertaining royalty. Ashe found his prim etiquette almost as charmingly misplaced as Balthier's, though he appeared to be of a rougher generation, taken to letting his manners thin on occasion and unafraid to withhold the proprieties awarded to women by Archadian chivalry.

He spoke of his good intentions as he led them through the mansion, claiming no interest in payment or any of the usual cares of pirates, but instead in earning Balfonheim its proper dues, as it had been paying Vayne handsomely for its sovereignty, and his reputation had begun to suffer as a consequence. Ashe felt inclined to believe this, though she still did not approve of her recent dependence on the cooperation of criminals—a sentiment, of course, that she dared not verbalize.

"For Your Highness," Reddas declared, opening the door to a lavishly furnished room on the top floor. "The finest bed in all of Balfonheim."

"And the others?" she asked.

"Downstairs."

"Hm." She nodded her approval and granted him a minute smile. "Thank you, Reddas. Basch will stay with me."

"…I will?" asked Basch.

She looped her arm around his and pulled him in, bidding the others a short goodnight and closing the door behind her.

"…Whoa…" said Penelo. "I had no idea."

"It's nothing," Balthier growled.

"Royal trust is not easily gained," Reddas sighed.

"Don't get too down on yourself," Vaan assured him, gesturing after Basch. "Seems like just yesterday she was slappin' him silly."

Reddas showed the others to the their room as well, and Balthier gave the kids proper warning that if he woke to find them anywhere near him, he'd be throwing them off the dock before they had a chance to fight back. They proceeded to mock him for this, bringing back into light the few hours he spent carrying Monty up Mount Bur-Omisace, but he resigned to simply ignore them, too tired and disgruntled to put up a decent protest. Sensing his discontentment, Fran presently returned to the foyer with the intention of stepping out for some fresh air—indeed, the indoor dwellings of the humans proved far too cramped for her taste—and found Reddas doing the same.

She explained the circumstances that had led to their involvement in the princess's quest, as well as Balthier's increasingly serious attitude toward it, but Reddas assured her that all would right itself in the end, and that the only variables were when and how the end would come about. She accepted this with a sigh, but then, after a brief pause, she slowly continued:

"I do not believe I ever properly thanked you for taking him in…"

"No thanks is necessary," Reddas replied. "The adjustment was difficult enough for me. I couldn't let him go through the same."

Her ears flicked at this, and she stared intently at her feet. "He is getting better, I think, but he does not behave as the other humans sometimes. He still feels guilt."

"He's a good man; he just doesn't know it yet."

She shook her head slightly. "Such short lives, and you waste so much time…"

"You may have all the time in the world and cherish none of it," said Reddas. "All it takes is one moment of greatness to compensate for a wasted lifetime."

"I can only hope," she replied.

For a moment she felt not too different from the Occuria—struggling tirelessly to save the pathetic little humans from themselves—but she had seen over the years that the stubbornness that plagued the race very often had a hand in their finer accomplishments. For all their immaturity, for all their selfishness, for all their ignorance, the humans had a way of working together that had kept them the rulers of Ivalice for uncountable ages.

But Balthier would only just begin to realize this as he was awakened in the dim hours of the morning. Timid hands shook his shoulder, and he followed his first instinct—to roll over and ignore it—only to hear a slight murmur in its place.

"Balthier…Balthier, wake up…"

His eyes opened groggily, focusing with intrigue on the figure before him—mussed hair, a rumpled silk slip, a blanket clutched protectively around her shaking body. _Ashe_. Unfortunately, he wasn't yet of a mind to voice his observations, and instead mumbled a half-conscious, "Huh?"

"Shhh," she hushed him urgently, glancing at the others sprawled out on the floor around them. Though excitement was evident in her voice, her eyes glistened with desperation. "…I need you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he choked. "I don't fly that way—"

"Quiet! Come with me."

He cast a disparaging glance at the clock across the room, barely able to locate it in the shadows. "It's four o'clock in the morning, woman!"

"Where's Rasler?"

"What?"

"My ring. Where did you put it?"

"…You…you're going to…" He looked at her curiously then, and seeing her intent to be no mere whim, he rolled to his feet. "No way am I missing this."

They stood out on the dock for almost an hour. She paced, and whispered, and chewed her fingers. He watched, arms folded, telling her to calm down. At one point, she stood at the very end of the dock, barefoot and shivering, holding the ring out over the water and biting her lip uncertainly, and he noticed for the first time how thin she was, and how beautiful, and how childish. Her feet turned slightly inward, toes curling over each other, and there was a feral, psychotic glint in her eye that could have easily turned to tears had he criticized her for her failure. When she let her arm drop back down to her side, ring still clutched in her hand, he simply stood, picking up her blanket from the planks where it had fallen, and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders.

"You look like you need some caffeine," he said, and she released a short, bitter laugh—almost a gasp.

They sat across from each other on the floor, then, in Reddas' office (Balthier insisted he wouldn't mind), and drank their coffee in almost total silence. The sun gently set its rays through the window, illuminating patterns on the floor, somehow bringing her to her senses. She uncrossed her legs and tucked them under her. She pulled the blanket around tighter. Princesses did not allow themselves to be seen so disheveled.

"…I'm going to be Queen," she said at length.

"Isn't that a good thing?" he asked in reply.

"Queens do not consort with pirates."

"So?"

She released a sigh, staring down into her empty mug. "…I want to free Dalmasca. I truly do. But I want things to stay as they are. I want you and Fran flying the _Strahl_, and Vaan and Penelo making as much trouble as they can, and Basch taking care of me no matter how I try to discourage him…I want this to last forever."

"You want to run away."

"…I suppose I do."

"It doesn't solve anything," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Really it just postpones things." Seeing that her eyes fell to the floor despairingly, he shifted uncomfortably and spoke again: "Listen, Princess. The only thing worse than living in the past is living in the future. You should be Queen, but that doesn't mean you will be. Vayne could very well crush the Resistance and take all of Ivalice for himself. You could just as easily end up working for Reddas—or for me, if you get your ass in gear. Or we could all die before lunch."

A smile played faintly upon her lips, and he continued with an almost inaudible sigh:

"_History is built by our own hands._ That's his favorite line. Now, if my crazy old man won't stand by and watch the Occuria's stones shape our world, you shouldn't either. You're going to end this. You're going to do all sorts of great things, and go down in history as the Dynast Queen you were born to be. And every so often, I'll drop by and kidnap you, just to keep things interesting."

She continued to stare downwards, a pathetic attempt to hide her embarrassment, and he rose before her, extending a hand. Taking it, she let him pull her up, but quickly released him in order to wrap the blanket more securely about her bony frame. He noticed her fumble and alleviated the quandary by taking her mug and setting it aside with his, airily letting loose a comment about her "royal" appearance, and receiving an equally biting response.

She met his eyes for only a moment, noting that they held the same coppery shade as the wood of Reddas' desk in the morning sunlight, and suddenly she realized that he, too, looked quite rugged from the early awakening. His vest was gone, his hair not quite as perfect as usual, his shirt buttoned only half-way up—for a moment, he almost looked Dalmascan. Taking note of her steady gaze, he cocked his head and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Enjoying the view?"

All she could do to keep from smiling was bite her lip, which in his opinion was ten times better, anyway. She silently held the ring out to him in her open palm, and he seemed to hesitate for some fraction of a moment in taking it back. He reached out, but then paused briefly and laid his hand on hers, flattening the ring between them, gingerly gripping her fingers and turning them—and he kissed her hand, very carefully, half-expecting a punch in the gut. It didn't come, however, and he slowly released her, sliding the ring into his own hand as he did so. She stared at him, breathless, and with his other hand he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, then told her to go back to bed—Basch would have a heart attack if he awoke to find her missing.

She obeyed, but found sleep impossible with fresh caffeine in her veins and Balthier on her mind. The sun flickered through the drapes, lighting the dust that puffed in the air, mesmerizing her as she laid clammy and still on her back, tenderly rubbing her knuckles—hoping to find some trace of the kiss. Eventually, she rolled out of bed and scooted toward Basch—he insisted on sleeping on the floor—and nestled herself against his side, hugging his arm. He stirred, but did not wake, quietly whispering a name she did not recognize—his wife's, she guessed, which did little to settle the flutter in her heart. Though after an hour or so he jolted back, shocked to find her so close, apologizing even as she rose and readied herself for the journey.

The others had woken already, and she wondered if Balthier had even slept after seeing her off—if he had lain awake and thought about her, if he could even remember what he thought, if he was at all like she was. He and Fran stood by the window discussing some story of the good old days with Reddas, while Vaan and Penelo giddily inspected a map on the wall, noting all the places they had been and all the places they were determined to go. They leapt with joy at her arrival, ordering Basch to wake her up sooner next time, and Reddas gave her a respectful nod of apology, then said that he would accompany Her Highness, if she did not object. In such a mood, she couldn't.


	33. Chapter 32

Holy crap. This chapter was a beast.

_XXXII._

High above the sea, towering over serene white sand and crashing azure waves, a great lighthouse loomed mightily in spite of its aging dominance. Though weathered, its structure proved sound, and with exhausting dread Gabranth docked his Archadian ship near its peak, safely out of sight of the _Strahl_ on the banks below. There had been a day that such a mission would arouse in him such anger that he might struggle to follow his orders, but apathy had taken the whole of him now, and he wished only for it to end. Half of him hoped he might die this night, but the other half eagerly awaited his return to Archades, if only for one reason.

His careless complacency as of late notwithstanding, he had found it difficult to leave the imperial palace. He had hesitated for a moment, wondering if Lamont was too old now, but then decided that he wasn't and asked, as always, "Will you be good while I'm gone?"

His assumption had been correct, for the boy smirked mischievously and replied, "Absolutely not."

"That's my boy."

A pat on the head, and they parted, a routine that he hoped would instill in him the will to live through this ordeal. No amount of grief could lead him from Monty without a proper final farewell—he felt sure of it. And yet the dreadful silence that awaited him in the highest chamber of the tower seemed an omen of death so strong that he barely set foot in the stone archway before turning and heading back out to the ledge overlooking the sea. The fresh air did him good, and he saw no reason to mill about in the shadowy lighthouse when the princess with whom he was to negotiate had not yet even reached the top.

While he gazed out at the blue expanse, however, the princess in question, along with her cortege—now heavy a third pirate—scaled the derelict stone stairways of the aged tower, eyes ever upward to the lightless peak above. Shimmering blue stone surrounded them, cut with expert precision, though clearly predating the tools that could achieve such accuracy. Luminescent veins of magicite snaked through each brick—a higher concentration per cubic inch of stone than even the most prized Bhujerban mines—lending a dull, ethereal glow to the entire structure. An odd sense of foreboding pervaded the atmosphere, heightened by the faint echoes that seemed to trail listlessly from one passageway to another.

The hazy light against the dim stone sent a flutter through the shadows every so often, never failing to startle Penelo (and sometimes Vaan), and occasionally exposing the Mist where it hid in the darker corners of the tower. Little could be divined of the building's origin, for though it appeared manmade, there lingered about it the same unnatural aura that had enveloped the immense stone maze at Giruvegan—as though this tower represented a great meeting of the two cultures, a melding of their wisdom and power, while at the same time a struggle between them over influence or perhaps simply presence in Ivalice. Whichever it truly was, both possibilities seemed quite unsettling to the group, and they stuck close together as they explored.

On occasion, Balthier would grow still and quietly survey the area, much like a deer sensing predators beyond its sight, and Ashe, too, seemed to prowl the shadows, alert to all echoes whose origins eluded her. Vaan took Penelo by the wrist if ever she began to wander too far from his side, and while she seemed irritated by this, she more often than not found herself drawing back close to him for fear of some shady silhouette or unknown sound in the distance. Basch and Reddas seemed relatively unmoved by the eerie surroundings, however, for they placed their faith in Fran's ability to hear what they could not—she remained undaunted, and thus so did they.

Presently, though, her ears unfurled slightly, widening in search of some sound she could in no other way perceive. Seeing the futility in her attempts, she ceased them and continued on without a word, Balthier at last coaxing from her an explanation:

"What is it?"

"The din of the Mist grows greater…" she noted, faintly wrinkling her nose. "The Sun Cryst must be near."

"Will it be safe for you?" Reddas questioned.

"…I think so," she said slowly, "though I fear I am no safer than any of us."

"Hey," Vaan added, "if you go at it like you did on the _Leviathan_, this should be a piece of cake!"

"We can only hope," Fran replied with a faint smirk.

Though the others found his optimism a relieving source of amusement, Ashe seemed slightly disturbed by his words, thinking back to their misadventures aboard the _Leviathan_—and indeed, all of the trouble they had met as of late. She turned her eyes upward, looking gracefully over the gently glowing stone, unaware that the rich blue of the light vitalized her grey irises, washing them with crystalline beams of cerulean.

"…The _Leviathan_…" she said slowly. "Seems so long ago."

"Yeah," Penelo added. "I can't believe we've only been at this a month!"

Balthier tossed his head dubiously. "Speak for yourself. I can't believe I've stuck around this long."

"I suppose the price is right," said Fran.

"And God knows the scenery changes," he replied.

Their jesting had little effect on the princess, who continued walking at a steady, nonchalant pace, melancholy softening her voice. "…A lot has happened."

Reddas suppressed a sigh. "For better or for worse, I take it."

"The last two years passed so slowly," she explained. "Now time moves faster than I can use it."

Vaan nodded, his expression growing distant. "Sometimes I feel like I've just seen Reks yesterday…" he said quietly. "But then I remember everything that's happened since then—it doesn't seem real, you know?"

"Sometimes it seems _too_ real," Basch agreed. "Either way, I wish it would stop."

"I don't know which is worse," said Penelo. "I mean, I don't want to be haunted, but I don't want to forget, either. Sometimes when I close my eyes…I can see them so clearly."

"Illusions of the past," Reddas added, the strength of his voice echoing against the staircase they ascended. "You think you have cast them off, only to find them years later, unwearying, unrelenting. The past can bind a man as surely as irons."

"I was afraid of that," Balthier sighed.

Penelo, a few steps ahead of the others, stepped on the platform at the end of the stairs and let out a joyous shout, along with a girlish leap. "We're here!"

"Really!" Vaan asked, dashing up beside her. "Finally!"

Penelo's voice softened then as the others joined her, looking around the circular chamber with weary disinterest. "There's no Mist…"

Indeed, the room stood quite starkly empty, the square hole hewn in the center of the floor where the stairs met their destination the only entrance or exit, save for the arched walkways stretching from floor to ceiling all around the edges. Beyond these laid a continuous ledge, expansive, covered in moss, providing an immaculate view of the bejeweled ocean, as well as the last rays of the setting sun behind it. The columns of the archways supported a domed ceiling, sturdily built, but old enough to warrant a bit of concern.

Fran stepped away from the group, ears alert and tail twitching slightly, but her eyes scanned the room with little alarm. "I know it is here…" she said faintly, the others watching her intently. "I've never felt Mist like this. Perhaps it is not Mist."

"Not Mist?" Vaan asked, trailing after her.

"Here." She halted, long limbs still, but not rigid. "It comes from here, I think. Not Mist, but the beginnings of Mist."

"How can that be?" Ashe replied, walking slowly to meet them, toes gentle against the ancient stone. "Isn't Mist always Mist? I thought it couldn't be created or destroyed."

The others followed behind her, Balthier nearing her side. "I suppose if it can be transferred, it can be transformed."

"Don't tell that to Cid," Reddas replied.

Ashe stepped forward to closer inspect the spot which seemed to so intrigue Fran, but as she laid her foot down, the stone beneath it shifted, scraping against others, which in turn lowered themselves mechanically and slid out of sight. Vaan took the princess's hand to steady her as the others backed away from the gap in the floor, and slowly a dark pedestal of ornately carved stone rose from the darkness, spinning gently, the floor gradually closing around its base until at last all movement ceased.

Atop the pedestal, flashing with the subtle effulgence of Mist, sat an irregularly oval-shaped stone, considerably large and hewn at one end. It shone white and milky, clear around the edges, like a shard of quartz, and structured and opaque in its depths, not too very unlike selenite. The surface flickered unusual colors in ways that reminded Ashe of the adularia pendant she had worn on her wedding day, yet something dark and colorless undulated at the stone's center, sometimes writhing and quivering, sometimes motionless and dead.

Vaan had released the princess once she found her footing, and she now stepped tepidly toward the Sun Cryst, the others closing in behind her, surrounding the pedestal. Their eyes had uniformly grown round with marvel, but this quickly turned to skepticism and then to fear.

"…It pulses," Fran noted deftly.

None of the humans could detect this, but the minute movements of light across the Cryst's surface lent an air of life. The cloudy center turned murky for a moment, and then fell still.

"It's huge," said Vaan.

"Little wonder they keep it secluded in the sea," Reddas added. "That much nethicite could founder a continent."

It seemed near to the size of an infant, perhaps a little larger. The film of quartz-like clear stone that encased it appeared to grow slowly over the blunt cuts taken from it, closing an ancient wound little by little over generations of sleep. Reddas had ceased his advance a few paces away, unwilling to draw too near to the stone, and Balthier had halted but a few steps closer. Fran had dared to inspect it briefly, but she now returned to the periphery, masking her intimidation with her usual calmness. Vaan and Penelo followed her, gathering with the others, while Basch remained a step behind Ashelia.

"Princess?" Vaan asked at length.

He received no answer, and Basch, showing the first signs of discomfort, spoke in a slightly patronizing tone:

"We shouldn't linger here, Highness. Take it or destroy it."

Ashe remained motionless, staring into the depths of the great rock, watching intently as the light within it stirred back into action. The faint murmur of her name resumed, but the Sun Cryst—unlike the Midlight Shard—called to her in a familiar voice. After a moment's consideration, she recognized it as her father's, but it melded then into her mother's. Shaking her head, she took a step back, and the voice changed yet again as she drew Gerun's sword, intent on dividing the Cryst and returning to the _Strahl_ with it in pieces. Though she could not place the new voice, she found herself pausing for a moment, stricken half dumb with awe. King Raithwall once stood in that very spot. With that same sword, he cut the Sun Cryst and took the power of the would-be gods in his own mortal hand. And yet, he did all this in the name of peace—or so she thought. The past remained hidden from her now, the truth distorted.

As she stood, however, even the present blurred, for a hazy image of Rasler manifested before her, at first dim and wavering, but increasing in strength until he seemed as real as any of the companions who now stood at her back. At last recognizing his voice, she suppressed a gasp and raised the sword slightly, though not high enough to strike. Behind her, Fran shook her head.

"…The Mist…" she groaned.

Ashe turned to her, as did the others. Mist crawled in faintly along the floor, cool and wet, but thin and transparent, carpeting the ancient stones and magnifying their delicate glow. The flicker of magicite reflected upon the gentle clouds of condensation, creating a translucent, silvery pool of mirages that cunningly overtook the floor.

"Alright?" Balthier asked, knowing better than to show too much concern.

Fran widened her stance slightly, steadying herself and flexing her ears attentively. "…It's Joté," she said, her voice wary and quiet. "Or the voice of the Wood. I cannot tell…"

"You hear that, too?" Penelo asked.

Ashe's eyes grew sharp, and she struggled to curb her severity as she turned to Penelo. "You hear it?"

The girl seemed to shrink, tears welling in her eyes, magnifying the depth of their blue. Drawing her shoulders in and forcing her gaze to steady, she answered her princess in barely a whisper: "…It's…it's Reks."

"It's like he's trying to find us…" Vaan added, stepping to his sister's side.

Looking over her companions, Ashe saw in each of them the damaged expression of pain she felt certain she herself displayed. She could not venture to guess how the nethicite struck so deep or why it stooped to such methods of persuasion, but the power and skill with which the stone manipulated those who would wield or destroy it drove a chill through her core that awoke emotions she had thought long slain. The same terror glinted in the eyes of all the others, and she strengthened her voice in hopes of assuaging their fear.

"We're all hearing something, aren't we?" she said.

Each of them shifted then, eyes averted and expressions vulnerable. Balthier hardened his countenance, however, glancing to his side as though perturbed.

"Perhaps you should try answering it," he suggested flatly.

Turning to the Sun Cryst once more, Ashe studied the play of light on its surface, gripping the hilt of her Occurian blade, but not daring to raise it. The churning Mist that enveloped the pedestal on which the stone sat altered its shape slightly, reconstituting itself into Rasler's visage, pale, fluttering, occasionally mirroring her own likeness.

"…What do you want from us?" she asked, low-toned and commanding. The image wavered, the voice whispering her name as though from a distance. "Revenge can't solve anything. There's no justice in this."

The stone's faint call faded suddenly as a stronger voice answered her, thickened with a slight metallic echo and weighted by a Landisian accent: "Why do you hesitate? It was meant for you—take it."

She spun, knuckles white and teeth clenched, facing her father's murderer as he advanced from behind her comrades. "You…" she breathed coarsely.

"I haven't come to stop you," he assured her. "Go on, Princess. Why not make the rightful Kingslayer the first target of your vengeance?"

Seeing her approach the Judge with taught, anxious steps, Basch grounded himself between them, and addressed his brother with a low growl: "Stay away from her."

"It's her right, isn't it?" Gabranth countered.

"Hers alone," said Basch.

"Then we're both out of line. Nice to see you free of your chains, by the way."

"If only I could say the same of you."

At this, Gabranth drew his sword, prompting Ashe—now standing at her knight's side—to raise her own in reply. Basch gripped her forearm tightly, forcing the point of her blade to the ground, but he said nothing, gleaning a look of almost pleading curiosity from her.

"You'll need more anger than that," the Judge said with a faint laugh.

Now Reddas, too, stepped in with sword drawn. "Do not heed him, Majesty," he told Ashelia. "This is no choice to be made out of rage."

Gabranth cocked his head, studying the pirate before him with gracious familiarity. "Zecht—of all places to turn up."

"It's been too long, Gabranth," Reddas replied with a grin.

Ashe turned to Balthier. "You said Zecht was dead."

"He is," he replied calmly, nearing her side opposite Basch. "So is Famran."

"And to think they still call you cowards," Gabranth added.

"Forgive me, Princess," Reddas pleaded, "but you would never have trusted me had I been honest."

"And would it be too much to ask it of you now?" she shot back.

Shaking his head with a dismal sigh, he obliged: "Two years past, I took the Dawn Shard—stolen from Nabradia—and used it not knowing what I did. Nabudis was blown away, and I swore never to let such terrible power be used again."

"Then you've come to make my decision for me, have you?" Ashe sneered.

"You've already made it," he replied.

"Nonsense," said Gabranth. "Did you not swear revenge, Highness? Do the dead not demand it?"

Reddas stepped ahead of the princess, unwilling to let her come to blows with a hound of the Empire. "Remember, Lady Ashe: that which you must grasp is something beyond revenge, something greater than despair."

"Greater than common sense?" Gabranth mused.

"Violence has no further purpose in this war," Reddas insisted. "We can reach peace by way of strength no more than we can reach love by way of hate. What's past is past, and no act of vengeance now will lessen the pain of it. Try as we might, Gabranth, history's chains bind us too tightly."

The ring of steel echoed through the dark stone chamber as their swords at last made contact, and it seemed then that the Sun Cryst glowed faintly, lighting the Mist at their feet. The Mist in turn grew opaque—a slow transformation that served to better light the circular room, as the shine of the Cryst reflected off its surface, replacing the now sunken sun. Vaan and Penelo neared the princess protectively, Fran remaining solitary, rubbing her temples.

Balthier shook his head. "It's just not the same when everybody's sober…"

"We may not be able to escape the past," Gabranth told Reddas, "but we must live with it. If she would decide by your will, she would be forever doomed to live with hers."

Suddenly, a third blade swung between the two, breaking their contact and throwing the Judges each back a step. Basch stood his ground between them, though still wary of the princess's safety, and spoke in the tone Noah had so effectively used on him since childhood: "Then you force her to choose between hatred and cowardice."

Ashe briefly turned her eyes to the floor in dejection. "Basch…"

"Just ignore them, Ashe," Penelo added, taking the princess's arm in hers. "This is your decision."

"Whichever path you follow," Basch assured her, "you will not walk it alone."

Ashelia's eyes lowered, greyer than usual, and she placed a hand on Penelo's. The girl still clung to her supportively, even as she turned back to face the accursed stone that throbbed imperceptibly with power. The blurred, transparent likeness of Prince Rasler gazed back pleadingly, but she met his eyes for only a second. At her other side stood Vaan, and she found his presence at first oddly comforting, and then mysteriously profound. Surely he had lost no less than she—he and Penelo had suffered every misfortune that befell Dalmasca, yet to them the choice proved simple and clear. And suddenly she became aware of the third blade—the sword of a Dalmascan knight strapped to her back. How it had lost its position at her side, she could not remember, but now its purpose seemed all too clear: a decision to aid her country could only be deemed right if made wholly—duty allowed no room for fractional success. After all, Azelas had taught her to fight for herself.

Glancing over her shoulder briefly, she noted that the twins stood poised, each equally desperate, but divided in their hopes. Reddas appeared stony, wracked with guilt and determined to bend her to his will, and Fran seemed to waver, dizzy, her face drawn with fatigue and dismay, wondering how humans could falter at the hands of such decisions. Only Balthier, it seemed, held no interest in her choice. He stood a pace or two from her side, and would no matter what she did. Meeting his eyes for a moment, she parted her lips subtly, but could find no words, and he responded with only a slight tilt of his head. She had thought herself a pillar of virtue worthy of her people's pride, but the way her very heart vacillated betrayed the faith she had always had in the soundness of her morality. By making either choice, she felt for certain that she would forever be haunted by the possibilities of choosing otherwise.

She turned once more to her prince. Their time had been short, their relationship unorthodox, their love decidedly limited, but never had they been strangers, not even in their earliest days, and she knew that it was not Rasler who stood before her now. Her Rasler would not beckon reckless violence in the hope of avenging ills dealt in the past, and he certainly would not place his trust in self-serving beings of arrogant demeanor and questionable origins. The Rasler she had known—the prince, the soldier, nearly her own brother—was not the kind to sacrifice freedom for security, not the kind to take base revenge.

Ashe approached the pedestal, leaving Vaan and Penelo behind, and spoke in a crestfallen whisper: "The Rasler I knew is gone." Raising the sword, she sliced through the hazy image, and in an instant it faded, dissipated like smoke. She sheathed the blade. "I am no false savior for you to use."

The stone released a piercing chime that cast the Mist back from its pedestal, and Ashe, too, stepped away from it warily, but silence then descended upon the dark chamber. A low light reverberated in the Sun Cryst's depths, and it slowly returned to its throbbing glow, the Mist wafting back inwards and settling into place. Though the princess's cortege met her gaze with unified relief, her heart yet remained unconvinced, and she kept her eyes sharply trained on Gabranth, who seemed to leer at her the way a tethered dog regards a cat just out of his reach.

"You underestimate Vayne's ambition," he stated calmly.

She balled her fists. "I won't let my country be tainted by the same power that conquered it."

"What good is a kingdom you cannot defend?"

Basch shifted a bit, facing his brother with an assured stare. "I will defend queen and kingdom both."

At this, the Judge suppressed a huff of doubt. "You who failed Landis and Nabradia? Your oaths poison those you would protect."

"At least he tried." The words came from Vaan, who now stood beside Ashelia once more, blue eyes trained steadily on Gabranth in spite of his obvious volatility. "What gives you the right to talk about failure when you tucked tail and surrendered at the first sign of disappointment? He did what needed to be done, and you just gave up."

"Vaan…" Penelo warned.

Gabranth glowered at him, his resentment palpable even while masked by steel, but his tone conveyed acceptance of the accusation—which unsettled the others even more. "Would you have your princess do the same?" he asked. "If she refuses to do what is necessary to win this war, she sacrifices all right she's ever had to defend her people; she's given up on them for the sake of keeping her own hands clean."

"She's not trying to win this war!" Vaan insisted. "She's trying to end it! Wiping out Archadia wouldn't accomplish anything. What would change? We can't help anyone now. Reks, Rasler, the king—they're all dead. Killing more people isn't going to fix that."

"And allowing Archadia's injustice to stand without reprove?" the Judge replied. "What good will that do Dalmasca? Even if you would not see the dead avenged, don't the living deserve closure?"

"I want to free my country," said Ashe, tone resolved but succumbing to weariness, "and I certainly want to punish the Empire, but causing new suffering will do nothing to alleviate what's already been suffered." Turning her gaze downward to focus with sullen regret on her hand, she took the Midlight Shard from her pocket, and continued resignedly: "The power of nethicite might grant me rule of the whole world over, but it can't change what has passed. What's done is done." The stone rolled out of her slender fingers, dropping into the shallow layer of Mist that blanketed the floor and tumbling toward Gabranth with a dull echo.

He shook his head slightly, noting the gentle surge in the Sun Cryst's light. "Don't do this, Princess." His voiced sounded injured, sensitive. "The world has seen what Archadia is capable of—they will follow whatever leader dares stand against the Empire. You and your uncle can do what Landis couldn't."

Reddas stepped in yet again, eyes fierce but expression sedate, addressing Ashelia rather than continuing to argue with Gabranth. "True, countries will rally to you, but they will trust you to win their freedom. Nethicite may crumble an empire, but it will surely build another in its place. You have made the right decision. Walk away while you can."

Ashe seemed younger, her expression childlike and weak. "Please, stop…"

"You cannot walk away from your only chance at liberty," Gabranth insisted. "What of your broken kingdom's shame?"

"What of your husband's needless death?" Reddas countered quickly.

"Your husband?" Gabranth scoffed. "Better yet, what of your father?" He sheathed his sword and slowly stepped forward. "I took your king. I took your country. Do what you must, Princess. You know I deserve it."

Ashelia edged back, her heart leaping as he neared. "Stop…"

"Stop? It's too late for that. We've both come here for the same reason: to take what we've rightfully earned."

She shook her head. "…And neither of us will have it."

"For two years, you've been so eager to kill me." For a moment, he sounded truly honest. "Why relent now?"

Her hands quivered in spite of their self-inflicted grip, and she choked on the fury of her words: "…Because…I understand you."

At this, his breath stilled, and his head tilted in puppy-like bewilderment. All fell silent, the Mist muffling even the sounds of their breath, and Ashe felt as though she looked into Basch's eyes for that moment, though she knew in reality that she stared at nothing more than a burdensome mask of steel. The Judge stood speechless and still, studying her intently—curiously—refusing to allow himself further failure, and yet unable to muster a practical response.

Amid the calm, Balthier observed a look of distraction engross Francesca's features. She strained her ears, sensing the sounds of a ship, but finding no evidence of it in reality. An attempt to locate the disturbance by scent ended abruptly with the overpowering odor of Mist. No other took notice of her puzzlement, however, all eyes drawn to Basch as he risked a tranquil step toward Gabranth, sword lowered and voice sympathetic.

"This can accomplish nothing, Brother."

The Judge turned to him, weary and shaken, but could find no words with which to counter. Vaan and Penelo watched closely, leery of Ashelia's resolve.

"You want so badly to punish yourself," Basch went on. "I know—I did too, after…"

"You made a mistake," Gabranth said quietly. "I made a choice."

"Was it really so different?"

The Mist seemed to grow heavier, but it did not yet rise above knee-height. Sound played across its surface like waves of water that thicken and thin against the shore, and somehow the voices of the two brothers almost seemed identical in spite of Basch's gentility and Gabranth's metallic strain. The Judge grew very still, but he spoke with firmness spurred on by guilt and necessity:

"Just what do you hope to accomplish in revisiting this? You have no reason to forgive me, but you know damn well she's forgiven you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Basch replied gruffly. "Anyone can see that you did what you did for Monty's sake. Can't you forgive yourself?"

"Can you?"

Basch set his jaw tightly, a hint of hazel creeping into the jade of his eyes as he turned them away. The creak of armor signaled Gabranth's discomfort, but he continued on, slowly losing his steady façade with each word.

"If I can't earn forgiveness, I'll welcome punishment, so long as justice is done. Perhaps I gave up on my duty when Landis fell, but I won't be made useless again. I won't let them take all of Ivalice."

"And what if they do?" Ashe snapped. "It's more power in your hands."

"More power in Vayne's hands," he replied. "One way or another, Lamont will be left to fix this mess. I want only for him to have help in doing so."

"Nethicite helps no one," Reddas insisted.

Finally, a hint of desperation entered Gabranth's tone, though the rigidness of his posture countered it well. "Look at what they've done to your home, Princess—to my home, to our whole world." Ashe averted her eyes, but he continued: "You can make Ivalice what it used to be."

And suddenly another voice broke into the conversation: "For God's sake! The lot of you could talk in circles forever!"

Off to the side, Mist swirling with his steps, Cid entered the domed chamber, the Archadian ship in which he arrived docked on the expansive ledge beyond. Balthier adopted a stony expression of conceit while regarding him, and Fran steadied herself, taking only minimal comfort in the revelation that her senses yet served her amid the growing pool of Mist. Cid, however, remained focused on Ashe and Gabranth, addressing them with casual superciliousness and a far too friendly tone.

"In my day, we settled nonsense like this with swords."

"…You…?" Ashe growled, eyes leveled critically on him as he approached.

"Sorry to crash the party," he went on, "but I'm afraid it can't be helped."

Gabranth looked to him with gravelly abhorrence, largely unsurprised that he had been caught in the act of betrayal and even somewhat glad for it. "Vayne sent you…"

"Indeed," said Cid, "with the authority to release you from your esteemed services. Your orders were to determine Lady Ashelia's true intent, not to turn her against us."

He tilted his head back knowingly. "My orders from Vayne, perhaps. My orders from Lamont were to protect her."

"And this is your idea of protection?" Ashe injected. "Having me wage war on an enemy more powerful than I could ever dream?"

"To have you do otherwise would lead you to your death," he snapped indignantly.

"It would lead you to an alliance with Archadia," Cid corrected. "Monty is Vayne's only weakness—he's convinced him to hear you out."

"So he would have Monty believe," Gabranth added.

Ashelia studied Cid for a moment, then with hesitant distrust asked, "…Lamont arranged this?"

He nodded. "Name the time and place, and Vayne will meet with you."

Balthier turned to her with quick eyes. "Don't, Ashe."

She regarded him curiously in turn, receiving confirmation from Gabranth:

"Lamont has no power—he can only manipulate yours and Vayne's."

"This is how you speak of your master?" Cid scoffed.

"The truth is painful," Gabranth bit back. "And if I no longer serve him, you can hardly hold it against me."

"Hm." His self-assured smirk seemed the very mirror of his son's. "I never thought I'd see the day when you would foreswear your oaths, but here it is."

"And all for nothing, it seems," he replied. "She bowed to Vayne's will long before Monty meant to sway her."

Ashe scowled.

Cid seemed ready to answer, but he turned his head before speaking, as though hearing a distant call over his shoulder. The others followed his rapt gaze as a distortion in the Mist signaled Venat's ungodly presence, the clouds gathering and rising, forming a subtly illuminated mound of shadow not far from the Cryst. A tremulous parting of the haze revealed the smoky triangular apparition, her shining body wavering in and out of sight—a specter that dripped and swirled like ink. A minute thrum of whispers flowed from the surface of the Sun Cryst, engulfing the whole of the lighthouse with words that seemed eerily familiar yet unidentifiable, and presently a melodious hiss of consciousness rose above them, Venat's voice weaving listlessly through the billowing Mist:

"Princess Ashelia…"

Ashe fell back a step, drawing Azelas's sword with a quaking hand and noting Cid's disinterest in the creature's appearance. Balthier stood to her right, eyes sharp and intense, and Vaan and Fran stood to her left, Vaan poised to strike and Fran steadying herself, studying the Occurian with failing focus. Venat hovered delicately beside the Sun Cryst, seemingly limbless within the shroud of blackened Mist.

"Do not be afraid, Highness," she said with a wraithlike hum. "I mean you no harm. I would see you free of Gerun's grasp—free from the oppression of human tyrants and far-removed gods. Do not take this power for your own—to wield nethicite against nethicite will lead only to mutual ruin. Rather destroy this stone while you can, and allow me to lead you against the Empire and restore the great dynasty of old."

Ashe glared, fingers numbing from the crushing grip on her sword. "No doubt you made Vayne the same offer."

Venat hovered motionless. "I do not discriminate in my generosity."

"Honestly, Venat." Cid stepped in now, his tone calm, but clearly disappointed. "Looking for the highest bidder? I knew you were unscrupulous, but I thought you might at least grant some loyalty to your puppets."

The creature turned to him slightly, her wavering body bending much like a sheet of paper. "I seek to liberate humankind," she explained. "Which savior chooses to act on my counsel matters not, so long as justice for Ivalice is ensured."

"Justice is not ours to grant or withhold," Ashe insisted.

"Not yours, indeed," Venat countered, "for mortals fall too easily and too often to their own misguided sense of morality. But I am of a higher consciousness, and I would not bid you strike out of hatred or simplistic retribution."

Ashe stepped forward. "And what would you have me do? Offer my country and my people to Vayne in the hope he will prove an _honorable_ dictator?"

"I would have you stay your thirst for vengeance and instead deny humankind the use of god-born power." The Occurian met the advance with a calm bow, sending a low plume of Mist rolling forward to waft against the princess's legs and evaporate around her. "The Sun Cryst is glutted with Mist—enough to conquer and subjugate your world for untold generations—but the very existence of such might drives your kind mad with avarice and entitlement. You are a wise species, in spite of your many shortcomings. Do not allow this foolish desire for supremacy to cloud your judgment."

"I cannot leave my people defenseless," said Ashe.

She shook her amorphous head. "Certainly not, Majesty. You do not understand the workings of the stone. Only this one piece of deifacted nethicite exists, and all others, though cut from it, yet remain inextricably connected to it. All are borne of Ivalice's same womb, and destroying the original stone will in turn destroy its shards."

"You expect me to trust you?" she demanded, chancing a few more bluffing steps toward the floating being. "Haven't you spent years teaching humans how to create our own nethicite?"

Venat's voice grew more serene. "A countermeasure to fend off the wrath of my brethren, should it fall upon you before the Sun Cryst could be found. Now that you possess the power to eliminate their threat of domination, you have no need of divine defense."

"I don't believe you."

"Just hear her out, Princess," Cid interceded. "If you relieve Vayne of his power, he'll be willing to negotiate with you."

"You're just as deceived as he is," Ashe replied.

Venat ruffled subtly. "It is Gerun who deals in deception, My Lady. I offer you the disillusionment you need and desire."

The stars had risen over the ocean beyond the arched pillars around the room, and the ethereal glow emitted by Venat's ghostly body and the Sun Cryst behind her served as the lighthouse's only illumination. Basch remained still while Ashe advanced on the Occurian, Vaan following warily at her side, but with the others distracted, he now turned to Gabranth and spoke quietly.

"You should go while you still can."

He received a metal-shielded glare in return, but before the Judge could speak, Penelo stepped in, her voice small and sweet.

"Monty needs you."

Pausing to consider her, he grew very still for a moment, and then returned his gaze to Basch, nodding at the princess as she argued with Venat. "Don't let her do anything stupid," he said calmly.

Basch irritably averted his eyes, and Gabranth seemed to regard Penelo one last time before turning and silently disappearing through one of the stone archways. Penelo studied him in return, wondering what fascination she drew from Landisian men, but when she saw that Basch had solemnly returned his attention to the confrontation near the center of the chamber, she took her place between Vaan and Fran—a few steps behind, as her fencing skills remained considerably lacking.

"You're no different from Gerun," Ashe went on. "You mean to use us for your own ends."

Bobbing slightly in the air, Venat lessened the glow of her eyes and answered, "I mean only to equalize the powers that control Ivalice. How might humans fight fairly amid the perpetual interference of the gods?"

At last, Balthier joined in, his tone comfortingly cocky as usual: "So, you're only interfering to prevent others from interfering? That makes about as much sense as you and Gerun claiming to show humanity the truth about each other."

Venat turned to him with a faint wisp of smoke, her orange eyes momentarily brightening. "Do not perplex the princess any further. A Dynast Queen needs wise and clever councilors. You are nothing more than a confused little boy who fled from his own genius—your allegiance does her a disservice."

"You're awfully quick to name her your Dynast Queen," he bit back. "If you really think so low of mortals' judgment, why put us in charge?"

"Mortal Lady Ashelia may be," Venat hissed, "but she bears wisdom beyond her birth. Her reign will lead humanity into an age of enlightenment far greater than any of her predecessors have yet witnessed."

The creature continued talking, but her words registered only faintly in Ashelia's mind. Loosening her grip on Azelas's sword and noting the surge of stiff pain that pulsed through her fingers as she pried each one in turn, the princess pondered distantly why Venat would say such things. She seemed to truly wish the Sun Cryst eliminated, yet Ashe began to wonder if she should not act contrary to the Occurian's wishes, if only because she distrusted the species in whole. However, the prospect of destroying all the world's nethicite in one blow gave her a taste of the optimism Balthier so often encouraged her to entertain, and furthermore, it seemed that to act _against_ Venat would be to act _for_ Gerun. She refused to serve either being, but she feared for the future if she made enemies out of them. Faintly, a voice called to her, and she noted with wonder that the Cryst now emitted enough light to nearly fill the top of the lighthouse. Cid's voice permeated her thoughts then, and she wondered how long she had ceased paying attention.

"Perhaps Vayne will bend to your will under the weight of praise," he was saying, "but the further you spread it, the thinner it wears. What are you really up to?"

"Do you truly doubt me after all these long years?" Venat replied heatedly.

"Science has always been a pawn of war," he replied. "Skepticism makes for the best defense. I thought you were above all that, but you don't care who does your bidding, do you? As long as the ends suit you, any means will do."

Balthier rolled his eyes, his expression bearing more exhaustion than disgust. "Don't get all self-righteous now," he growled at his father. "You had no problem with her plan when it would plant Vayne on the throne and you among his most loyal subjects."

Cid returned his indignant glare. "Artificial nethicite was supposed to end this war once and for all, and set humanity free. I never thought she'd be irrational enough to help me create it only to destroy it…"

"You knew all along what it would do when you finished it?" Balthier asked, eyes briefly betraying his youth.

"It was for the greater good," Cid insisted.

Balthier gazed at him uncomprehendingly. "You made your nethicite for this?" Cid said nothing, and he faintly shook his head, continuing in a tone of calm distress. "You've only ever been a tool."

"Will you two drop it?" Ashe interjected. "This isn't the time for petty arguing."

Shimmering, flapping fluidly, Venat looked on her with eager pride. "Can you not see your own skill for arbitration?" she asked. "This world needs one focused on the improvement of intercultural relations and the pursuit of harmony. Your mediation would settle Ivalice's qualms without violence."

"You would seek harmony through forceful submission of all who disagree with you," Ashe snapped. "What part do you think you have in the affairs of humans, anyway? Let us handle our own fate."

"Even if it leads you to extinction?"

"It's our risk to take."

The Occurian lowered subtly, her wavering body growing more reflective as the Mist thickened around them. "Please heed me, Ashelia. Together, we can grant your people a lasting and self-sustaining peace…"

"My people don't need your polluted power," she growled.

"My power?" She rose again, hovering only slightly higher so that she once again looked down on the humans. "I am of Gerun's race, but there our likeness ends. The Occuria give humans power to tame them. By turning your back on their stones, you give your species free hand to write its own history."

Ashe's gaze did not falter. "At what price?"

The creature seemed to hesitate, the blackness of her form darkening against the growing light of the Sun Cryst. Reddas looked to Ashelia, and his voice seemed somehow deeper as it carried through the brackish Mist:

"Pay her no mind, Highness. You have made your choice, but it is worthless if you fail to see it through. Don't let this monster sway you solely because you suspect it of foul play."

"Indeed," Venat added, "do not let me influence your judgment. The wisdom and independence you have exhibited in making this decision is monumentally impressive, and through it you have earned my trust. Vayne wields intellect and might, but he would not choose as you have, and thus he cannot be trusted to govern Ivalice. Strike down the stone, that together we may dethrone him and return this land to the splendor it once boasted."

Ashe withdrew half a step, the nearing form of the Occurian blending with the heavy clouds, the edges of her vaguely triangular body blurring in the reflective light, her tail smoky and dream-like. Vaan's voice, clear but cautious, broke the silence:

"…Fran?"

All turned to the Viera, who only barely remained visible through the fog. She stood tall and strong, but her ears drooped, and she held her head weakly. "…The Mist is—changing somehow…" she reported.

Ashe once again leveled her glare on Venat. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she said. "I hold no power over the Sun Cryst."

"Don't give her the satisfaction of concern, Princess," Cid warned. "Destroy the nethicite, but do it for your own sake. Venat will sell her idea of peace to whoever is gullible enough to buy it."

Venat glowed brighter, the darkness of her core seeming to absorb the Mist and reflect it back threefold. "His loyalty to his emperor outweighs his loyalty to his species. He aided me to give Vayne supremacy, not to bring peace to Ivalice."

"He makes a better case than you do," Ashe replied.

"And in half as many words," Cid added.

Venat flared, edges fluttering rapidly. "What right do you have to act so ungrateful? I sought your aid to help humanity, not to bolster the Empire."

"You corrupted my work," Cid growled, "just as you corrupted every other part of my life. I won't have you do the same to the rest of the world."

The Mist puffed around them hectically, blindingly pale under the power of the Sun Cryst, reflecting the stone's radiance in luminous bursts of white that faded into fleeting pinks and blues and lavenders as mirrored images of every portion of the room flickered in and out of sight. Ashe could see only those closest to her through the opaque veil of illusion, and in an instant Venat vanished and reappeared several paces closer, morphing menacingly to Cid, flashing waves of color through her form before again falling black.

"Need I remind you that your work is my work?" she flared. "Were it not for my guidance, humans would never have learned to weaponize nethicite, much less create their own. And even so, you have played barely a passive role in this venture; your son contributed far more to our cause than you ever did."

Balthier drew nearer to his father's side, advancing slightly on Venat. "Not intentionally, I assure you—not that it matters now. Why do you care so much about the dealings of us meager mortals anyway? Trying to settle a bet with Gerun? If we're so difficult, why not just let us annihilate each other and start over?"

With the dreaded Occurian distracted, Ashe went in search of her guardians. Basch kept close, as did Reddas, but Vaan had strayed from her side amid the mounting chaos, and as she called out to him, he seemed to answer from several directions at once. His sudden appearance startled her, but she recovered quickly as she realized that Fran had grown faint, leaning on Vaan and Penelo as they walked her toward the others. She insisted that she could manage, but Ashe knew little time remained to them. Trading Azelas's sword for Raithwall's, she set out through the Mist to find the nethicite.

"Humanity's potential is too precious to waste," Venat continued, glowering at Balthier with smoldering eyes. "Indeed, you yourself serve as a perfect example, for it was your brilliance that spurred this project forward. Through your effort and intelligence did artificial nethicite come into existence, and it has surpassed even the power of the stone of gods."

"Really," the pirate scoffed. "Five minutes ago, I was a confused little boy."

"And this is your chance to rise above your past failures." She seemed to gradually abandon the former wispiness of her voice, adopting in its place a raspy rumble. "Intentionally or not, you spurned the gods and brought this madness on your kind, and now you can see it ended. Do you wish to bear witness to the devastation your efforts can wreak? Do you wish to see what the stone of man is capable of?"

"I didn't do this," he answered firmly. "Whatever you created in that lab has nothing to do with humanity, and certainly nothing to do with God."

The images in the Mist intensified, shifting, glowing. Though most of the party guarded Ashe near the pedestal bearing the Sun Cryst, the distortion of light cast their reflections all about the circular chamber, occasionally creating the illusion that they all stood grouped together. Sound, too, traveled in strange paths, echoing off empty air, disorienting all but Venat. The falsity could not entirely deceive Fran's quick ears, however, and she staggered a few steps from the princess, gazing at Venat accusingly through the deepening veil of Mist.

"The nethicite acts by your will…" she said distantly, swaying faintly on flimsy legs.

The Occurian whipped around swiftly, turning sharp eyes on her and speaking in a violent whisper. "You would do well to return to your forest shelter and keep silent."

Penelo took Fran's arm as she lost her balance, and the Viera leaned on her heavily before pivoting and regaining her footing. "The Occuria control the stone…" she said to Ashe, who had approached her from behind to offer aid. "We must destroy it…"

At her back, the stone shone in a gamut of swirling colors, eliciting a rattling hum as it vibrated softly against the dais. Suddenly, Ashe felt overwhelmingly glad that Balthier had joined her on this journey, for his presence had acclimated her to the trickery of well-crafted double-talk—indeed, she suspected she had nearly built up an immunity to it now. Refusing to let some manipulative, outlandish being twist her resolve, she heaved her sword and made to hew the nethicite, but her stroke had not even begun to fall when Reddas gripped her arm to stop her.

"It's beginning to stir," he explained grimly. "An unlucky blow may trigger it."

Farther in the sea of briny vapor, Balthier turned a victorious glare to Venat. "So what's your plan now? Waste all of the energy stored since Raithwall's time and try again generations later when it's recharged? You think you'll have better luck next time?"

The creature ruffled her edges tepidly. "The Cryst defends itself, nothing more." And then, turning to the princess: "You should have stricken while the chance was upon you."

Fran, now fallen to one knee between Vaan and Penelo, shook her head defiantly. "It's lying…"

"What do we do?" Ashe addressed the question to anyone who would hear it, and knew that her eyes grew wide and blue as she searched their faces for answers. Only blank expressions met her inquiry, fading fast as the Mist seethed between them.

"If you know how to use it," Balthier said to Venat, "why do you want it gone so badly?"

"I am not activating it," she rasped. "It acts on its own will."

He glowered even as the Mist blurred his vision. "Are you even capable of telling the truth?"

"You mean to guard yourself, but your doubts will only impair you." She floated forward gracefully, clouds of silver parting before her. "I wished to help humanity escape the darkness of its bloodlust, but I cannot do it alone. We would have made a great team, you and I. We could have ended this war while Gramis yet ruled, and prevented all of this suffering and guilt…"

"Shut up!" Ashe called out from somewhere within the Mist, her voice only minimally breaking through the dense puffs. "Your perseverance will get you no further with him it got you with me!"

Like a curtain of mirrors, the Mist closed upon her, at last locking the two groups away from each other, beyond sight and sound. Venat advanced on Balthier and Cid, though neither gave her any ground. "What a great shame that so many bright minds wither in stubbornness…"

"So quit wasting your time on us and get lost," Balthier snapped.

"Ah," she wisped smoothly, "such high hopes I once had…but you ran, and they with you, and now the hour of your return has come too late."

"Stay away from him." Cid stepped in, placing himself between the two, forcing her back slightly if only by the shock of his rebellion. "Whatever aid you would offer, we don't want it. You would manipulate anyone to get what you want."

Venat hung in the air, livid but composed, and a rich shade of crimson began to throb in the drifting curl of her tail, subtly rising, blending with the gleaming black of her torso. "I want only that which Ivalice desperately needs," she snarled. "Your obstinacy and cowardice have led you far from my guidance. I ought to have known long ago that you would be too selfish to strive for harmony."

Confidence seemed to overcome Cid's expression, and he spoke with a bitter huff that guardedly resembled a sigh. "All these years, he was right to turn his back on you. That must drive you mad—being outsmarted by a human…"

The red continued to rise. "In those days, he was too weak to make the sacrifices you and I made for our ambition. But he is grown stronger now, and far brighter than you could ever—"

"What the hell would either of you know about sacrifice?" Balthier had stepped away, but could not yet manage to join the others—could not turn his back on this confrontation.

Cid seemed to soften at the demand, but his eyes conveyed helplessness, and his tone fell with a note of pain. "Balthier…"

"Such fervor is squandered on burdens of emotion," Venat insisted, shining eyes once again focused on the pirate. "If only you would return to Draklor…"

Cid took a weak step toward his son. "What your mother did—"

"What she did?" Balthier flared. "Don't kid yourself! It may have been her knife, Cid, but it was you who drove her to use it."

"Anger can achieve nothing if you cannot harness it," Venat injected. "Your father has outlived his usefulness, but you will surely surpass him in acumen and skill."

Balthier shook his head. "You've bastardized my work more than enough already!"

"If only you could accept the truth when it comes before you," she pressed, wing-like edges flapping the Mist away. "I have paved your way to eminence—Cid has rejected it, but surely you will seize it before the end."

"Don't bet on it," Cid growled. "He's stronger than I am—certainly stronger than you are."

At this, the deepening scarlet that radiated within her flushed through her entire form, and she broadened her posture, rising higher to stare down on them portentously. "How unfortunate. I have enjoyed these years, but it is near done now, and I cannot leave any loose ends."

A violent flash erupted from her core, knocking Balthier to the slick, salty ground and tinting the impassable wall of Mist a brutal and terrifying red. The deafening ring that accompanied the outburst filled the room as well, and for a moment all his senses fell dim, and he struggled numbly on the stone floor, sword drawn as though it might do him any good, feeling the cool Mist descend upon him in a smothering shroud of ruby-hued light. As the piercing clamor at last began to fade and the Mist slowly paled, he thought he heard shouts of confusion sound out from some distant room within the depths of the lighthouse, but his attention quickly flew to the sticky slime that coated his palm. Sitting up and examining it, he came to realize with slow horror that it was not the condensation that moistened the floor, but rather blood that had pooled beside him—his blood, though he himself remained unharmed.

In that moment, a shadow formed in the haze, a gold-eyed silhouette looming over him. "Reconsider your options," she whispered. "Together, we could serve Ivalice well."

Fading in a plume of Mist, she at last vanished from sight, and Balthier fumbled in the glowing expanse of whiteness, calling quietly to his father, searching for any sign of life. A hand found his shoulder, strong but waning fast, and although the lustrous vapor stifled all visibility, Cid's voice reached him gentle and clear:

"You're right, you know. As usual."

"Oh, for God's sake," Balthier groaned feebly, "why can you only admit that when it's not true?"

"Not true?"

"It wasn't you—it never was."

A multitude of colors sparkled across the opaque screen of Mist, but neither paid it any mind. Cid released a gruff laugh, short and weak, but somehow it sounded genuine. "You would exempt me? Have me plead insanity? Don't lower yourself to the point of blaming Venat…Didn't I willing accept her manipulation?"

"Stop…"

"Spend your pity elsewhere." His grip failed him, his hand falling from Balthier's shoulder and his tone softening to an exhausted sigh. "I'm sorry, Bal. You deserved better."

For all its suddenness, the silence seemed to arrive gently, and Balthier at last let out the breath that he'd held for four years. He could sense the impending bedlam, but for the moment no action suited him better than sorrowful stillness, and so he allowed it to consume him. Presently, he recognized a hint of relief in his heart, though he could not tell whether it manifested in response to the final gruesome closure he had witnessed or to the pearly puffs of moisture that shrouded his childlike expression of dejection from the others.

For their part, the dilemma raged on, and although each felt somehow aware of Venat's departure, they yet knew nothing of Cid's. Reddas supported the increasingly ailing Fran, handing her off to Vaan and Penelo, who squinted desperately through the cloud cover in search of any opening through which they might locate fresh air. The Viera stumbled as Occurian-borne winds encircled the spire, trapping the Mist within the confines of the highest chamber. Willowy limbs weak beneath her and ears rolled tightly shut against the din that eluded her human counterparts, she struggled to keep upright, to make her husky voice audible through the haze.

"…The Mist burns…" She wrinkled her nose faintly. "…The Sun Cryst…is releasing its power…"

Penelo freed one of her hands while the other supported Fran about the waist, darting to her pocket and producing the little piece of manufacture nethicite. "We need to get her away from it," she told Vaan, handing the stone to Fran with the hope that it might intercept some of the energy that bombarded her. "Fran, the ship's not far."

Noting the girl's words with interest, Ashe glanced around the great Mist-veiled pillars to see that salvation yet lingered within reach—on a ledge jutting from the outer wall of the tower, there sat docked a small Archadian craft, larger than an Atomos but lighter than the stealth warships that won the Empire so many battles. Cid, she lamented, no longer had need of it. For a moment, she wondered how she could know this with such certainty, but the Mist closed then, blocking the ship from her vision, and she decided against questioning such mysteries.

The kids underestimated Fran's frailty, and she felt to one knee against the slick stones, clutching the nethicite and flexing her ears in a vain attempt to locate stable orientation. They knelt at either side of her, coaxing her on, but her senses quieted and her mind clouded, and she knew that she had grown too weak to walk. This onslaught proved far worse than what claimed her aboard the Leviathan, for now it seemed to her as if no energy remained at all—not within herself, and not within this Mist-glutted room. The strangling fog overcame her will to try, and Penelo's nethicite, gripped painfully in her slim fingers, felt near powerless.

"Come on." Vaan's voice called out from a direction she could not determine. "We'll help you."

She sensed a funnel of wind beyond the walls of the lighthouse that felt in all ways identical to the aura emitted from the Occuria, but nothing else registered in her mind, the strength of the Sun Cryst blocking all other sensation. She could no longer see the princess, nor Basch and Reddas, who had been trying to help her, and although she suspected that Cid no longer lived, she sensed no trace of Balthier, alive or dead. He had always understood her better than other humans—the Dalmascan teenagers that aided her acted on concern and kindness, but knew nothing of what she suffered. The Cryst would blow soon, and while she felt certain that Basch would see Ashelia to safety, a fear none would think go after Balthier crept into her mind, taunting and panic-inducing. Recalling the direction in which she had last seen her partner, and forgetting that the Mist surely misled her, she forced herself to take one haggard step, then fell to all fours and gasped for breath, Vaan and Penelo frantic above her.

Elsewhere in the commotion, Basch and Reddas stood on either side of Ashe, who had grown pale as she processed the barrage of untrustworthy information that descended upon her. To flee and allow the Cryst to release would ensure its survival for many more human lifetimes, granting Venat and Gerun another round of their foolish match. Yet to destroy it now would surely mean forfeiture of her life, and her people had no other to whom they might turn.

"Ashe," Basch insisted, close at her side, "we have to get out of here…"

"We have to stop it!" she corrected irritably, her voice somehow fiercer against the fog.

"It will take us all out with it!" he bit back.

Reddas turned to face them both, the Sun Cryst pulsing nearby and his tone deep and determined. "We cannot wait any longer, Highness. Give me the sword and get out of here."

She reeled around, back to Basch and eyes alight with the stone's glow. "What! You think I'll just pass my responsibility off on you!"

"Better me than on our progeny," he replied. "You have greater evils to slay than this. Let me do it for you."

Basch spoke plaintively from behind her. "Dalmasca needs you, Princess."

"I can't just leave you here," she insisted, shaking her head.

Reddas smiled broadly in reply, shifting his weight with an air of confidence. "What other choice is left to us?" he asked. "You are no good to Ivalice dead, and I am of little use alive."

"Reddas!" she scolded.

"Just give me the sword," he continued calmly. "Do what you must, and let me set right what I have allowed to go so horribly wrong."

Ashe hesitated, sensing Basch's anxiety and her own. She had to live, whether she liked it or not. Dalmasca's freedom depended on her, and even were she not royalty, she could surely not let Basch suffer the loss of another ward—she could not fall victim to the same horror that claimed Rasler. She feared for Balthier—she had left him to distract that monster—and for Fran as well, though she could vaguely see that the kids tended to her on the floor. Mist blurred the image, and the princess wondered if in fact the three huddled behind her, merely reflected in a cruel illusion. And then she wondered if the Sun Cryst indeed rested before her—if it was not mirrored from some other room within the lighthouse. With her thoughts so disheveled, she hardly felt herself able to choose between her own life and Reddas's, but his eyes pleaded with her in spite of his stonily flippant expression, and she held out Raithwall's sword to him, unaware of her intent until she spoke: "I'm sorry…"

Reddas smiled as he took the weapon, a grateful but melancholy smirk that conveyed far more emotion than he intended. "Don't apologize, but celebrate—after two full years, I can at last make amends."

The genuineness of his expression eased Ashe's guilt, but she still felt an absolute coward for allowing another to make such a sacrifice on her behalf. Acrid Mist slithered across her skin in an accusatory creeping motion reminiscent of frenzied insects, and she sought desperately for something to say, but—as always—she came up short. A wave of shameful relief overcame her when the Mist stirred and Penelo's voice sounded throughout the chamber:

"You have to keep trying!"

Basch and Reddas followed Ashe's gaze to the unfortunate scene, and she edged forward slowly, unwilling to leave Reddas alone with his dreadful task just yet, but also fearful of Fran's withering strength. Vaan and Penelo managed to haul the Viera to her feet momentarily, but she could scarcely drag her feet a full step before collapsing once more. Basch and Ashe exchanged glances, hesitantly starting forward, but in that moment a calm call sounded through the haze, its origin unclear, but its tone decidedly reassuring:

"Fran?" Balthier emerged from the effervescent pall behind the crumpled Viera, his expression flushed with mock exhaustion. "Must I do everything around here?"

Fran's ears stretched wide, turning toward him in sync with her eyes as he knelt to pick her up.

"Well," said Vaan, "you are the leading man, aren't you?"

Fran forced a petite smirk as he lifted her into his arms, thankful that he arrived in time to spare Vaan the job, but barely able to voice her gratitude: "…I'd say you're in more of a—supporting role…"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "Fran, please."

Noting his hesitation as the princess ceased her advance, Reddas looked to Balthier sternly, raising Raithwall's sword. "Be quick, lad," he warned. "I'll take you with me if I must."

Balthier replied with only a gaze of mournful respect, then turned to leave, both suddenly grief-stricken kids trailing behind him, just now understanding what would soon occur. Reddas set his jaw definitively and tried to ignore Fran's garnet-hued eyes watching him over her partner's shoulder as he carried her through the smothering vapor. Basch and Ashe followed quickly, but she idled at the Mist's edge to regard Reddas one last time.

"Reddas…Thank you."

Receiving a consenting gaze in return, she turned and vanished into the shining haze, following the others through the potent gusts of wind beyond. They boarded the ship quickly, Balthier depositing Fran on one of the small cots in the cabin before rushing to the cockpit, and in an instant they took to the sky, struggling out of the wind's grasp and zipping briskly away from the island. The little ship proved considerably cramped compared to the _Strahl_, but none seemed to mind, Basch and Ashe gathering tightly with the kids at the back window to observe the glimmering lighthouse in the hope that it might remain in tact—that the Cryst might die peacefully, and they might return for Reddas.

They received no such luck, however, for the tower erupted in a deafening plume of Mist that sent vibrant lavender flames high into the sky. Although the explosion barely licked the trees on the isle below, its fury proved strong enough to cast back the waves of the ocean, exposing the great reef that surrounded the island before the roaring walls of water crashed back over it. Magicite-rich stone flew in every direction, chunks of the ancient structure blown brutally apart, gleaming like faint meteors as they soared through the darkened night sky. As the raging light at last began to grow dim, a great funnel of fire ripped through the clouds above, vanishing into space, leaving in its wake a pristinely circular hole over the crumbled base of the lighthouse. It seemed to those watching from the small aircraft nearby that the stars had never shone so bright.

The ensuing silence distressed them all—even Balthier, distracted in the cockpit, and Fran, half-awake in the cabin. Each suffered a piercing ringing that obscured their hearing for several minutes, and they could only gesture helplessly to one another, holding their heads, grimacing wearily. As the stillness settled and the group regained their bearings, Balthier lowered the ship closer to the wreckage, dipping it agilely around the island, flying it over the little jungle and the ancient stone foundation that remained.

Thankfully, the waves of force failed to reach the ground at full strength, and thus the _Strahl_, docked a brief distance from the base of the lighthouse, caught only a small gust of energy that barely blew it into the shallows off the shore. The cortege managed to tow the ship back to land with help from the minute Archadian vessel, and seeing that it remained in fair condition and proved far better suited their purpose and number, they boarded it and took flight, leaving the Archadian ship amid the tragic rubble.

Fran slept soundly in the cabin, her ears twitching occasionally, but apparently not picking up enough disturbances to stir her. Penelo, too, fell asleep, after many reassurances from Vaan, but she fidgeted at the slightest sound, even when her brother promised to stay awake and keep watch. He had given the princess a look of admiration, but he seemed to have acquired an awareness of her discomfort with words, and therefore said nothing to compound the unsettling sorrow of the atmosphere. Basch had sometime earlier left the cabin, and Ashe, restless and decidedly lonely, soon followed after him, finding him pacing the hallway that led to the cockpit.

"…You only do that when Rasler's in trouble," she said quietly, drawing his attention.

He paused for a moment, studying her with intense green eyes that quickly softened. "…When Rasler's in trouble, I usually am, too."

"Same with your brother?" she asked.

He nodded. "Except I was the troublemaker."

Turning her eyes down slightly, she felt a twinge of nervousness strengthen within her, heating her face, it seemed, or at the very least forcing more blood to her head than it could lift. Suddenly she felt petty, thinking of what they had witnessed barely an hour ago, or the way she had mentally and verbally berated Basch for accepting his brother's actions so complacently, or how he had carried her so far with such equine sturdiness and for such meager gratitude. She could remember a time when she would never have second-guessed Basch's judgment, and now she felt that same faith in him once more, though she did to a certain extent wish for it to once again depart.

"It's alright to hate him, you know," he told her in a tone far too gentle for so deep a voice.

"You don't," she contended, almost accusingly.

"I've tried."

Her head shook, seemingly of its own volition, and she pouted as her mind reeled, grasping at the perfect words and finding them so glaringly insufficient that embarrassment overcame her for simply thinking of saying them. "I'd like to think that you would make the same choice for Rasler," she admitted deftly. "Or that Azelas would for me. It used to scare me. I don't know. It's comforting now."

He gave her a questioning gaze as she searched for the proper mode of expression of her sentiment, and he could see in her eyes that she had briefly contemplated who she herself would make such a choice for, though the thought appeared to pass hastily from her heart.

"I'd only be hating a part of you," she continued awkwardly, "and I could never do that—I've tried."

At this, he smiled—almost laughed—and at once she felt justified and consoled. She had thought Monty most unfortunate to have a murderer protecting him, but now she saw it differently: Gabranth had done what most bodyguards only claimed they would do—he had proven that he truly would do anything for Monty. Spurred by sudden recollections of Basch's loyalty both to her and to Rasler, she tried to continue:

"I know I've been an inexcusable and unmitigated ass—"

"Don't apologize." Her eyes grew quizzical, though his soft smile put her at ease. "I wouldn't have you any other way."

Releasing a subdued smirk of embarrassment, she looked to the floor and tucked some hair behind her ear. This seemed to satisfy him, and he headed toward the cabin to join the others, briefly squeezing her shoulder as he went, causing her to notice vaguely that the round mass of bone and muscle seemed tiny and feminine in his enormous palm. She decided against following him, however, instead continuing forward, past the little closet at the side of the hallway and through the door to the cockpit.

Balthier sat quietly in the pilot's seat as usual, but all lights in the room had dimmed, save for a few that blinked faintly from the control panel. He did not hear her, watching the calm stars reflected on the sea as they flitted past, but the slight click of the door latching behind her alerted him to her entrance, and he briefly glanced over his shoulder. Awarding her only minimal regard, he turned his gaze back out the window.

"Shouldn't you be off somewhere demoralizing Basch?"

She shrugged. "Got old fast."

His eyes remained trained on the horizon, and he said nothing. Seeing that her admittedly pathetic jest had done nothing to cheer him up, she sat in the copilot's seat with awkward hesitance and guardedly observed his expression from the corner of her eye. For too long her emotions had been well-kept within her, and she simply could not find the right words to express her concern, but after several painstaking moments, she at last concluded that his well-being out-ranked her comfort, and haltingly tried to speak.

"Balthier—"

"I'm fine."

She paused and chewed her lower lip for a moment, then warily placed her hand on his. At first, he appeared to ignore it, and she mentally debated leaving him be, but then his hand turned slightly, and his fingers interlaced with hers, and—slowly—the pain began to dissipate.


	34. Chapter 33

_XXXIII._

A distinct weariness overcame Ashe's heart as the red flags of Archadia came into view, revealing in her a well-ignored longing to once again view the colors of her homeland—the deep royal blue on a field of gold, symbolic of an oasis amid the sands of Dalmasca's desert. Vaan and Penelo felt this same yearning, for they had grown sadly accustomed to seeing Dalmasca's flag flown beneath Archadia's, a sign of domination to ever and always remind them and their countrymen of their status. The opposite held true for Balthier, however, for the flag of his country signified to him the lost days of peace and nobility—and the recent days of fear and condemnation. Fran and Basch, however, held no such opinions; Fran because the symbols of her home were her home itself—ferns, trees, orchids—and Basch because he had taught himself upon the fall of his homeland that to take comfort in human constructions created only despair and emotional folly.

They passed two days in Reddas' home, stewing and moping, looking with dread and weariness on the possibilities to come. Even Vaan and Penelo grew dim as the hours passed, Penelo occasionally trying to brighten the spirits of the others, but eventually succumbing to the silence of grief. Vaan lamented that he should never have gotten involved in the work of the Resistance, cursing his naïveté and overpowering will, and this, oddly, served to bring some cheer to the group, though it quickly dissipated.

Fran tried hard to hide her interest, for although she did grieve deeply over the loss of a man as great as Reddas—a sentiment deepened by the grief of her sullen pirating partner—she found it fascinating that humans had so little time, and yet saw no disadvantage in wasting so much of it. Still, she could not keep her thoughts from straying. Reddas had been the first human she had ever truly felt any connection to—most had fled her presence, or at the very least tactfully avoided her, and there had been plenty who gawked from afar, turning their eyes if she caught sight of them, but Reddas had welcomed her to the world of pirates just as he would any other. And now, so quickly, he was gone. For a brief moment, she doubted her resolve, but it did not last long, for pirates reported to the manse in search of their king, and Balthier possessed no mood to give them ear in his place—it fell on Fran to answer their questions, and she suspected she would soon join the princess in whatever step she took next. Certainly Balthier would follow, and she found herself desirous of seeing this mission through; after all, she was as a human now—their struggles were hers.

For Ashe's part, her grief spanned many subjects, and yet moreso than any of the others, she took great comfort in the sparse antics of Vaan and Penelo. For so long, she had been above her people, and now that she found herself among them, she could muster up few reasons to return to hiding. She had thought in the first months after faking her death that she looked like a stranger, but now she could hardly recall what a princess looked like. She knew herself better now than she did then—she recognized her short hair, the scruffy brown fringe that framed her face; she had grown accustomed to the manly pants and the sturdy boots, the sword she carried at her hip, the concealed knife strapped to her side. The absence of her wedding ring appeared most notable, but even that left her feeling more her natural self. Something had happened, she thought, in the past two years—something frightening, but wonderful.

She observed the same qualities in Basch, for although his years in prison had changed him greatly, it seemed that they only purified his finer traits—his gentleness in spite of his strength, his sincerity in spite of his somberness, his fondness for mischief in spite of his discipline. He had spent a good deal of time with the kids while they awaited the second meeting to which Ashe, Lamont, and Al-Mid had agreed, helping them to improve their fencing skills, taking more accidental blows than his level of expertise warranted—Ashe, Fran, and Balthier had speculated on whether he did this to instill in the teenagers a sense of accomplishment or simply to cheer them up with the fits of laughter that followed each defeat. When Balthier suggested that the "old boy" may simply have lost his touch, he promptly received two smacks to the head.

For his part, Balthier had given Vaan a few more flight lessons, teaching him the necessities of landing and takeoff, and when Fran saw that her partner simply hadn't the heart for such whimsy, she stepped in to help. Involving Penelo in the adventures improved Vaan's focus, and before long the pair could fly the _Strahl_ nearly as well as Balthier and Fran—though they yet remained untested in situations of combat and confinement. Balthier, it seemed, would never trust them with his ship under those conditions.

Even amidst all this play, however, the mood of the cortege remained sullen, and on the third morning of their stay, anxiety for the future weighed so heavily on each of them that they could scarcely maintain a conversation without drifting off into thought. Assuming Al-Mid and Lamont managed to make it to Balfonheim, today the princess would learn where the emperors stood in regard to a possible treaty. She had been up before dawn, stoic and unreadable, and Basch had mirrored the expression, though he managed to humor the others occasionally. Both pirates kept to their business—Balthier buffing scratches out of the _Strahl_ to keep her skyworthy, and Fran filling Reddas's position as best she could.

Vaan and Penelo wandered the seaside, daring not venture too far from the princess whom they still protected, yet also daring not pester her or the others anymore, for both knew that stress ran high today. They sparred a little, practicing what Basch had taught them, and discussed the wonders of the ocean, for neither had experienced it before their travels with Ashe, but before long they fell silent, sitting side-by-side on the pier outside the mansion, watching the ships come and go.

"Three weeks went by fast," Penelo mused at length.

"I hope they can get here alright," Vaan agreed with a slight nod.

"…Yeah." She leaned against the post beside her, noting the evenness of the wood's grain, supposing the salty sea air had the same smoothing effect as the sand of the Dalmascan deserts. "…I'm sorry I was always bossing you around," she admitted quickly.

Vaan turned to face her. "…What?"

"Before all this happened. I was just so worried you'd end up like Reks." She kicked her dangling legs a bit as she spoke, but let them fall still now, dropping her gaze to her lap. "I guess I kind of handled it the wrong way."

"Penelo—"

"I know you're a lot like Reks, but I should have trusted you more than that. You love Dalmasca as much as any of us; you wouldn't just leave me."

Shaking his head now, Vaan strengthened his voice. "But you were right."

"What?"

"I don't think I really knew it then, but I did want to escape." He looked out to sea when her eyes met his, underestimating the depth of his words. "Probably the only reason I didn't take off was—well, like you said, I couldn't leave you there all alone. But seeing all the soldiers in the streets, those stupid red flags on every ship—it just felt like every day was a reminder that Reks died for nothing."

"But he didn't die for nothing!" she insisted.

Vaan tried helplessly to suppress his sarcasm. "Yeah, he put Basch in jail."

"You know," she went on, her voice desperate, childishly hopeful, "Basch told me something once—Monty and me—about the Dalmascan knights. He said that if one of them died doing something wrong, then his sword got melted down. But another knight could also stand up for the dead one. He could take his sword and try to do something great to make up for all of the bad things done before. Then, that way…it still happened, you know? But that way, it's almost like it never happened, because there's enough good in the world to balance out the bad."

Vaan smirked faintly, distantly recalling the Law of Exchange.

"Maybe Reks put Basch in jail," she explained, "but you got him out, right? Reks would have done the same thing—he would have done anything to fix his mistake."

"But I only fixed it because I tried to rob the palace," he replied bitterly, gripping the wooden plank on which they sat.

"So?" Penelo bit back. "I'm glad you didn't listen to me back then. If you hadn't robbed the palace, you never would have met Balthier or Fran, or saved Basch."

He smiled grimly. "You never would have gotten kidnapped."

"And Monty never would have found me. And if you hadn't met Basch and I hadn't met Monty, Ashe might be Archadia's prisoner right now, and there would be no hope for Dalmasca at all."

She had knocked her tiny fist against the plank a few times as she spoke, but she knew she could not hope to compel any sense of force into her voice—she had always been frail, adorable; she and Monty shared their struggle for respect in that area. But Vaan appeared to listen intently, taking her words to heart and considering where his path would have otherwise led had he not faced imprisonment so long ago.

Turning to his sister once more, he said plainly, "Damn, Penelo. You're always right."

"Even when I'm wrong," she agreed with a bright smile and a proud giggle.

"I guess there's no use dwelling on it either way," he continued. "If Monty and Al-Mid haven't gotten anything done, we'll just get back on the _Strahl_ and figure out what to do next."

She bobbed her head in an optimistic nod. "Maybe we can visit Rabanastre again. Poor Migelo's got to be worried sick."

Vaan laughed, but concern still gripped him—not only for the reports of Ashelia's accomplices, but for Penelo's reaction to them. Penelo possessed a bird-like caution that served her well in all areas but one, and all in the cortege feared the outcome that may result. However, as Vaan proved quick to point out when approached about the subject, the outcome depended on Monty and Vayne—actions, rather than circumstances, held the power to change his sister's mind. He could not say whether he truly believed this or only convinced himself of it to set his mind at some semblance of ease, but he hoped it might prove accurate; Penelo caught on faster than most would think—she knew her presence broke Basch's heart, though she didn't know why, and she knew her attitude lifted Ashe's spirits, though she struggled to perfect the art—but she had a weakness for Monty that she could not seem to acknowledge, and Vaan feared what may become of it.

The cortege did not participate in the meeting, however, instead keeping watch near the front entrance of the manor for anything suspicious. They greeted Al-Mid upon his arrival, and showed him to the office where the princess waited, then scattered about the great house in order to better guard it. Al-Mid and his cortege appeared to have anticipated Ashe meeting far more difficulty in reaching the port, and the prince bowed graciously upon seeing her, unmindful of her distaste for such exaggerated formalities.

"My dearest princess!" he exclaimed. "I cannot express my relief that you are still in one piece! You have grown even lovelier in the days since our parting."

"Thank you," she replied with a congenial bob of her head. "I'm so glad to see you are well."

"And our little leader?" he asked, signaling his cortege to wait outside. "Not yet arrived?"

The guards left, closing the office door at their backs, and all but two of them disbanded to join Ashelia's protectors in securing the building.

"No," said Ashe. "I hope he's able to slip away—he stands to lose more than either of us if he's caught."

"Do not worry for Lamont's safety—the boy has more skills than his brother's finest spies. However, some concern may be in order for the Pirate King—I hear he is no more. Nothing to do with our presence here, I hope."

"Not particularly, but I'm afraid I may have contributed to it. He was more dedicated to our cause than Lamont let on."

"We could scarcely tell a prince from a pirate with what Lamont lets on. But there is no time for mourning. Please give me good news—say you have persuaded Ondore to see the light."

"I wish I could. I haven't been able to get hold of my uncle, but Reddas spoke with him only two weeks ago. He seemed certain that the marquis is determined to meet Vayne in battle."

His jaw tightened in contemplation, but his voice seemed far less grim than his countenance. "And I don't suppose you could predict how well he might fare in such a confrontation?"

"It's been well over a month since I last had any contact with the Resistance," she admitted bleakly, "but even if Ondore has mustered all of our forces, it will be a close match in numbers, and we haven't had nearly the training it would take to compensate."

"Hm." He had folded his arms as she spoke, and appeared more puzzled than angry. "Archadia's military has every advantage, then. Our air force suffers from the same shortcomings as your Resistance, and our ground troops could scarcely assemble before they'd be ambushed and cornered. And the navy—that is a nightmare."

Ashe's eyes sharpened, but she kept her tone smooth: "The Empire has made overt threats?"

"No, no—there lies our problem. Vayne has our war pavilion jumping at shadows—a few airships in the east, a sea ship or two in the west, but none encroaching too far on our borders." He ceased the gestures that had accompanied his speech and adopted a tone of resigned, though not entirely devoid of frustration. "My father's warned him to keep to his own territory, but we can't yet prove he's not."

"And you'd lose the trust of Archadia's conquered territories if you were to strike first," Ashe concluded with subtle nod.

"Precisely," he agreed. "We had hoped to use a Dalmascan uprising as a bargaining chip with Vayne—threaten to join your Resistance if he does not relinquish some of his ill-got power. But if it should truly come to that, we are not guaranteed a victory, and should we be granted one, I have no doubt my father would take full advantage."

"Vayne's no doubt well aware of that—he knows the Resistance would rather treat peacefully with him than ally with your father and face Rozarrian subjugation."

Al-Mid smirked dismally. "Quite a corner we've backed our world into."

"Do you think your father would be willing to meet with me?" Ashe went on. "Perhaps if we could reach some common ground before—"

"Meet with you!" he cut in with a slight laugh. "Forgive me, Princess, but I have already suggested it, and he will do no such thing—he does not believe you live!"

She raised an eyebrow, mouth tight with derision. "Not his most trustworthy son, huh?"

He glanced upwards—off to the side—and waved a flippant hand while taking a few steps away. "I may have made minor exaggerations in the past—but that is irrelevant! It would not matter if Your Highness and the marquis allied with my father, even with Lord Lamont's help. Vayne knows the extent of his power and will sooner conquer us than treat with us."

Shaking her head, struggling against the childishness that she knew crept into her voice, she lowered her eyes and folded her arms. "I will not lead my people back into war…"

"Don't you see, Majesty?" he persisted. "The man can't be reasoned with. Our little lordling no doubt has his hands full—"

"You can say that again." The presence of a third voice startled them both, and they turned to the doorway guarded by Al-Mid's cortege as Monty entered. "I thought he would calm down once he settled into the throne," he continued, "but he's only grown more ambitious."

Al-Mid would not forego greetings for the sake of continuing the conversation as Monty would have him do, instead grabbing the boy around the shoulders and pulling him roughly against his side.

"You scruffy little rascal!" he exclaimed, oblivious to Lamont's exhaustion with such treatment. "I've had no luck in swaying my father, and the Lady Ashelia can track down nothing more than rumors of her uncle. We were counting on you!"

The Rozarrians in the doorway appeared most pleased with Monty's presence, nodding him their farewells and closing the door while he skillfully broke free of Al-Mid's brotherly embrace.

"Looks as though we all overestimated our abilities, then," he said with cordial Archadian subtlety. "I'm sorry."

With a toss of his head, Al-Mid continued: "I suppose we should not have left so lofty a goal to a nine-year-old."

Monty's face straightened. "I'm ten—three months from eleven."

"Yes, such a difference," he replied, rolling his eyes and waving his hand dismissively.

"This is no time to dwell on failure," Ashe stepped in. "We need a new strategy."

"God grant us luck in that!" Al-Mid quipped.

"Emperor Margrace is suspicious of the Archadian training exercises?" asked Monty.

Al-Mid barely suppressed the snap in his voice: "Must you continue to call them that? We know damn well where and when your training takes place!"

The boy faintly lifted a shoulder in a stifled shrug. "Vayne's trying to keep your father on edge."

"To prevent him from growing comfortable enough to seek an alliance with the conquered territories?" asked Ashe.

"Exactly," Monty replied. "If Archadia and Rozarria declare open war, he'll be able to finish our father's dirty work."

"And it will be over for all of us," said Al-Mid.

"Please don't think I support him in this," Monty offered diplomatically. "Peace through conquest is an unstable illusion—I know it well."

"You know, you could still marry one of my sisters."

"Not interested."

Al-Mid threw up his hands in frustrated defeat, and Monty continued to Ashe:

"I don't suppose you could say where Halim is training his fleet?"

She shook her head, eyes grey and dejected. "He's gone deep into hiding. He may very well think I was killed aboard the _Leviathan_—he'd take rumors of my survival as nothing more than bait in a trap."

Monty, too, seemed to wilt slightly, though he fought to maintain his façade of maturity in the presence of adults. "I knew it was bad," he said, "but I had hoped for more than this."

"I don't want retribution against Archadia," she continued, "but our only hope now is to ally with Rozarria. If we can convince Emperor Margrace to stay his troops once the tides are turned—"

The boy's eyes briefly grew rounder, the rich ebony irises deepening in color as he gently interrupted. "I'm sorry, Ashelia, but it's too late for that. Vayne's spies have reported that the Resistance is training for an aerial assault. He's already preparing to meet them." Al-Mid appeared infuriated by this, though he possessed skill enough to contain himself, but the near blankness of the princess's face spurred Lamont to continue: "The fleets were still under inspection when I left, but they'll be ready to leave by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Ashe growled.

He nodded. "And I don't expect them to be more than a day in reaching Rabanastre. This is worse than what was sent to Nabudis."

"So much for Rozarria!" Al-Mid exclaimed with a miserable laugh. "My father will be irate once this has played out! The old fool should have believed me!"

"The Resistance may stand something of a chance…" Ashe insisted, cursing the hint of desperation in her voice. "The deifacted nethicite has been neutralized."

"I know," said Monty. "And so does Vayne, I'm afraid."

"What?"

"He's started talking to Venat—just like Cid."

Ashe's eyes seemed distant, and she managed only to whisper a cheerless "Oh, no…"

Al-Mid, however, did not comprehend the seriousness to the revelation, and turned to Lamont with an eyebrow cocked expectantly in suspicion. "Venat?"

"That atrocity at Nabudis two years ago," Monty stammered. "I don't think it was intentional, but Doctor Cid's put a lot of work into it since then…"

"We've received reports of Archadia's technology," Al-Mid answered, "but nothing to suggest Nabudis was won by any means we could not match."

"It's highly classified."

He seemed to pause for a moment as though repressing a sigh, and for once his tone turned grave: "Just how worried should we be?"

"The deifacted nethicite brought down Nabudis and the Eighth Fleet," Monty explained, "but the princess is right—it's no longer a concern. It's the artificial nethicite…Poor Cid—he spent years trying to clone the real stuff, and just before he died, he managed to do it."

"But it can't be nearly as powerful as the deifacted stones!" Ashe insisted, again sounding to herself younger even than Lamont. "Don't tell me we went through all of this only to deprive Vayne of a fraction of his weaponry…"

"I'm sorry," he replied, expression earnest. "You did take the Dusk Shard from him, but he hardly cares about it anymore. The manufactured nethicite still works, and he's got plenty of it. With all due respect, Princess, you don't stand a chance."

Al-Mid smirked miserably. "Then perhaps it is for the best I have failed."

"The same goes for you," said Monty. "The fleet massing in the east is just a diversion. Our armies have been waiting in the mountain passes for nearly two weeks, and our navy is prepared to storm the western coast at Vayne's command."

"We know about your boats," the Rozarrian scoffed.

"Only the ones near the reef."

A pause. "…Shit."

"Your father will use the Resistance as an excuse to attack," Monty continued stepping closer to meet Al-Mid's subtle withdrawal, "and while your forces are busy over Rabanastre, ours will take Rozarria. That's why he's luring the battle into Dalmascan airspace; technically, it's Archadian territory, even though the Resistance acts independently. He'll use your attack to justify his own."

"He can't…" Meeting Monty's eyes momentarily, Al-Mid at last dropped his offended expression in favor of a more sedate one. "I knew he was good, but I never expected him to act so quickly."

"What _did_ you expect?" the boy replied. "Archadia's more than earned this reputation. Our only chance of victory over an equal power is the element of surprise. And actually, it was my idea."

Al-Mid shot him a glare.

"If I'd let him plan things out himself, he'd never let me in on the details," he defended with a shrug. "And it's not like I thought he'd do it immediately."

"So what do we do?" Ashe injected dismally.

"If Halim stands down, we might be able to prevent a conflict with the Rozarrians," Monty explained, "but Vayne isn't about to give up Dalmasca any time soon."

"And an alliance is out of the question?" she pressed.

"Maybe not entirely. Vayne hates war as much as any of us, but his idea of peace is just the opposite of ours. He doesn't want alliances—he wants control."

"Just like the Occuria."

Al-Mid stepped in again: "Occuria now? How many secret weapons has your brother been hoarding?"

"The Occuria aren't weapons," Ashe answered at Monty's hesitation, "they're people."

Monty seemed perplexed, looking to the princess with wide-eyed curiosity and well-restrained guardedness. "…What do you know about them?"

She tilted her head. "Less than you, I should think."

"I've never heard of them."

"Never? But Cid…" Intently studying the blank look on the child's face and forcing herself to consider his ignorance truthful, she reset her expression and struggled to explain: "The voice in Cid's head—Venat is an Occurian."

"…Then Venat is real?" Monty asked, brow furrowed adorably.

"Very real," she said. "It killed Cid—I don't know if it's male or female. But if what you say is true, it seems it's taken your brother for its new puppet."

"Oh, God…" His voice was tender, suddenly childlike.

"I'm so sorry," she went on. "I'm not trying scare you."

"No, it's alright…"

Al-Mid offered an indistinct shrug as he spoke: "Where did these Occuria come from? If you are looking for allies—"

"We could not ally with them," Ashe replied adamantly. "They live in Giruvegan, a floating island—they're not human, though I'm not sure what they are exactly. The nethicite was very important to them, and I thought perhaps they might leave humanity be once we destroyed it, but if Venat is still working with Archadia, there must be something more to them."

"Great," Al-Mid muttered. "Another boon for Archadia."

"Not entirely," she added. "Venat is something of an outcast, as far as I can tell. I don't find the others any more trustworthy, but it is only the one supporting Vayne."

"All these years…" Monty mused, undertones of depression drifting into his voice. "All the research we've done on nethicite…"

"Lamont…" Ashe offered, her voice quavering slightly as she searched for the proper words. "I'm not sure—I don't know your brother well—but if we can show him what Venat really is…"

"Would that really make a difference?" he asked.

"…Cid seemed changed," she said quietly. "Only a little, but…"

Al-Mid put up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. "Could we take a moment here?" he half-groaned. "Someone explain to me: Vayne is being manipulated by a rogue creature of an undiscovered race—and it's giving him the power he needs to conquer the world?"

"Something like that," Ashe answered with a short nod.

"What of Emperor Gramis?" he continued. "Did Venat pull his strings, too?"

"I couldn't say."

"Father never spoke to Venat," Lamont insisted quickly. "She was in Cid's head—he called her a she. But…he discovered how to unleash the power in nethicite, and how to clone it. Everything he did for Father, and for Vayne…"

"Then we kill this Venat," Al-Mid tentatively suggested, "and Vayne is no longer a problem?"

"No," said Monty, "he'll still be—he'll still be Vayne. Archadia will still hold Ivalice in chains. Venat has to go—and the nethicite. But then…maybe when Vayne loses all that power…"

"We can beat him back to his own territory," Al-Mid concluded merrily.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," Monty groaned.

Ashe spoke confidently, her expressions considerably lightened: "Without the power of nethicite to keep his empire in order, Vayne will see the appeal of a treaty."

Monty met her eyes and nodded. "And you'll be willing to give him one?"

She nodded as well. "Pride and revenge are luxuries my people can't afford. If Vayne will give us our freedom, I won't ally with Rozarria."

"And for the second time in but an hour," Al-Mid flared with a bitter smile and a half-sincere tone of sarcasm, "so much for Rozarria!"

With a smirk, Ashe continued: "The same goes for Archadia, of course. Dalmasca and Nabradia don't want trouble with anyone. We'll only ally with one or the other in the event of an unprovoked attack."

"I have your word?" Al-Mid replied trustingly.

"I swear—we want only independence."

He turned to Lamont. "And you, little throne-warmer?"

"I can't make any promises in the name of Archadia," the boy warned, "but the princess has my support. Her word in this is mine as well."

"Hmm." He folded his arms for a moment, then resumed his usual facetious gesticulations. "I cannot help but trust the both of you—one so damningly cute, the other so compellingly beautiful…"

"It will cost you more than flattery," Ashe said flatly.

"I'm getting to that!" he replied. "This is to happen before the Resistance launches its offense, yes? I take it you will expect no Rozarrian interference."

"If you can manage," said Monty.

He smiled. "I believe I can, but I make no guarantees. My father has been waiting on this for some time now—I can only hold him for so long."

"We will try to make it quick," Ashe assured him. "At the very least, the threat of your father's involvement may help us."

"I will do what I can," he said extravagantly, "but if I am to succeed, I must return to the palace before Vayne reaches Rabanastre. Have we anything left to address?"

"I don't think so," said Ashe.

"Nothing," Monty agreed.

Al-Mid bowed slightly, gesturing toward the door. "Then, if you will excuse my haste…"

Monty smiled brightly with a nod of both thanks and permission. "Only if you will forgive the accommodations," he said sweetly.

"One cannot expect even such treatment as this with times as they are. Which reminds me…" Al-Mid swiftly took hold of Ashelia's hand, clasping it securely in both of his, and met her eyes with a smile. "Lady Ashelia, when all of this nastiness is over, you must come to Rozarria with me. Ah, such things I will show you!"

She hesitated, eyes slightly widened, wishing only for her hand back. "Um…Maybe."

"That's better than no!" he replied triumphantly, releasing her and striding across the room with gallant pride. "Farewell, my friends. I pray we will live to celebrate our victory."

With that, he was through the door and away with his bodyguards, leaving Ashe and Monty with embarrassed smirks of relief. The day remained young, and each seemed to regard the other hopefully, though neither knew how to properly suggest a brief return to the fun they'd experience while traveling together. Though Monty longed to see Ashelia's cortege, he knew better than to place frivolous social endeavors above matters of state, and thus he spoke with more humility than the occasion warranted and more fear than the princess expected:

"I know you have to get going, too, but—if you could tell me more about Venat and the Occuria…"

She glanced at him somewhat dubiously, masking her joy that he wished to stay longer. "Gabranth doesn't want to get you back soon?"

"He may want me back soon, but I came here alone." Her expression turned to one of frustration, and his remorse for putting her in such a situation appeared evident in his eyes as he added, "Please don't."

"If you already know what I would say," she groaned with airy aggravation, "there's little point in me saying it."

He smiled. "And—the others?"

"Come on. They've been eager to see you again."

Her words proved truer than she had anticipated, for her cortege greeted the boy as they would one of their own—Penelo and Vaan especially—welcoming him with joy, concern, and a healthy dose of laughter. Monty had feared his struggle to contain his concern for his brother might show in his countenance, but Penelo had pulled him into a breath-stopping embrace the moment she saw him, and his worry quickly dissolved to a mere trickle of its former strength. He noted the well-hidden anguish in Balthier's eyes, and the fearful uncertainty in Basch's, but each seemed resigned enough to his lot and joined the others in filling Monty in on their recent adventures with near comparable contentment.

They sat in the airy parlor at the back of the manse, facing the sea where the sun passed its peak and cast a white gleam on the waves. But in spite of the soothing ambiance, the boy took in what little details they could offer of the Occuria with steely calmness, his expression thoughtful and calculating, and the others mirrored this when he described Vayne's recent change in character. News of the lighthouse came next, and Monty listened with rapt sympathy that he could not hope to hide. Gabranth had kept all but the outcome of these events to himself, no matter how the little lord begged or ordered—though he could not tell whether the Judge kept his silence our of modesty or shame. Neither Basch nor Balthier contributed to the conversation, though so too neither appeared visibly moved by the telling of the incident. As the subject moved on to Reddas' death, however, their calmness no longer seemed forced in nature, revealing the true discomfort felt by each in the previous moments.

Monty and Basch had become fast friends during their time on Mount Bur-Omisace, and the boy wished he could offer some consolation without worsening the tension between Basch and Gabranth, but the similarities between the two told him that he would fare no better with one than he had with the other. Basch, like Gabranth, could render his tone and expression unreadable when he chose to, and Monty suspected that, also like Gabranth, he would effortlessly deflect any inquiries pertaining to his wellbeing.

Neither would Balthier entertain any sympathy from Lamont, even given the days they had spent together making mischief in the laboratory or exploring the palace gardens. Monty hadn't entirely understood until his father's passing the depth of Balthier's despair when his mother took her life, nor had he fully comprehended the nature of the circumstances that led to it, but he had known since the funeral that Balthier handled his pain by shutting down, and the skypirate's distant gaze stirred memories of the days preceding his flight from Archades. With Ivalice in its current state and Balthier so close to the princess, Monty feared for the worst, yet also hoped for the best. In his desperation, after all, Balthier had always accomplished great things.

Balthier, for his part, had known for many years that Venat would bring about his father's demise—indeed, he had long felt that Cid had already died in one way or another. But facing the reality of his loss, he found himself in a state of numbness that he could attribute neither to the shock of witnessing the event nor to the relief that it had finally passed. Some part of him celebrated the severing of his last solid tie to the bloodthirsty empire of his birth, but it granted him no closure.

Basch handled the conflict that separated him from his brother with the brunt coldness that ran so strongly in Landisian culture, though he struggled to conceal his fear for the future. It had nearly broken him to confront Noah at the lighthouse, and he worried he may not take a second round so gracefully—he could not leave the princess vulnerable, especially not for the sake of his own qualms.

All present seemed to notice the strength with which Lamont maintained his façade, though each attributed it to a different mixture of tribulations, but he continued his inquiries in spite of his own growing horror. Vaan and Penelo explained the stance of Gerun and Venat—one giving humans power to do the bidding of the Occuria, and the other giving them power to rebel against the Occuria—but their explanation, lively though it was, left much unclear, and the others struggled to give a definitive description of the current situation as well.

"It's not that we support either one," said Ashe, "but we don't know how to escape their influence; every action we take seems to serve one or the other."

"I wonder why they're so interested in humanity, anyway," Monty replied. "I don't see what they gain from us."

"Influence, I suppose," she suggested. "Truthfully, I'm not certain I want to know."

"Perhaps," said Francesca, "they manipulate you only to settle a personal feud. Those with power do not often think of others with any semblance of respect."

"Pawns on a game board," Vaan replied, wrinkling his nose like a rat that smells poison. "That's messed up."

Monty set his jaw broodingly. "We have to break free of them somehow. Mutual fear will get Ivalice nowhere."

"But what can we do?" asked Penelo. "They've got the whole world at war."

"And they both think they're acting in the name of _peace_," Balthier added with mild repulsion.

"I can't even see where to begin," Monty whined. "I thought I had problems, but _this_…"

"Perhaps there's nothing we _can_ do," Ashe answered listlessly. "It all serves one of them in the end."

"Don't abandon hope so quickly," said Basch. "Venat and Gerun are the ones at war here. In destroying the Sun Cryst, we aided Venat, but to not destroy it would aid Gerun. This choice is no different: either Vayne takes total control over Ivalice or Ashe does. If we're to find any middle ground, we have to get rid of the Occuria."

"But can they even be killed?" Monty asked drearily. "You said they treated with the Dynast King—at the very least, they have the advantage of outliving us and trying again a generation from now."

"Good," quipped Balthier. "Let them handle it."

"I think I liked you better in prison," Basch groaned.

"We all did," added Vaan.

Ashe leaned forward, eyes intent and shining. "It's a good idea, though." A pause, and she continued: "Not putting Balthier in prison—although that one has my vote as well."

This got a smirk out of him.

"Getting rid of the Occuria," she continued. "Perhaps we can't fend them off completely, but we can act without them. So we may grant one victory over the other—what does it matter, as long the violence and suppression stops?"

"I see what you mean," Monty agreed. "We don't know nearly enough about them to deal with them now."

"Your brother's fleet takes priority," she added.

Monty stood, faintly shaking his head as though casting off a dream. "And speaking of that, I suppose I'm pushing my luck, staying this late."

The others rose as well, having sat in Reddas' sun-soaked parlor for a good two hours now, but none gave their farewells easily and all fought to mask their trepidation for the task to come. Ashe assured Lamont that they would deal with the Occuria later—indeed, she doubted they could afford not to—and tried to insist on sending someone to accompany him at least part of the way home, but he clung fast to his independence and managed to alleviate her concerns with well-feigned lightheartedness. Receiving a hug from Penelo, a guarded pat on the head from Fran, and the brotherly shoves from Vaan and Basch with which Vayne and Gabranth had raised him, Monty bowed to the princess, thanking her for her understanding, and paused before Balthier on his way out of the mansion.

"…I'm sorry about Cid," he said quietly.

"So am I," the pirate replied, folding his arms and looking away stonily. "Give your babysitter our thanks."

"Of course."

When at last he had gone, the cortege seemed to stew slightly, expressing their concerns for his safety and dodging the topic of what might become of them when they reached Rabanastre. Balthier turned his attention to his airship, and—after enduring a considerable amount of whining and pleading—he and Fran agreed to let Vaan and Penelo pilot the _Strahl_ for the safer portions of their journey, though they insisted that the children take part in preparing the ship for flight—cleaning, stocking, and otherwise ensuring that the royal party would survive any and all difficulty that may come upon them. The room turned lively then, as they discussed what provisions the occasion required, but they soon left for Dock Thirteen to see to their work.

Ashe trailed along, watching disinterestedly, but their antics and arguments brought her little cheer, and presently she found herself wandering along the pier. Though she dared not stray too far—Vaan frequently forgot his protector duties, but she did not have the heart to give poor Basch difficulty in guarding her—she strolled until their banter faded into the lapping of waves against the pier, the creaking of boards beneath her feet. The silence offered no respite from her thoughts, but her head seemed to clear as she breathed the ocean air, filling her lungs deeply and realizing as she exhaled that she seemed to have hardly breathed since their arrival at the lighthouse nearly six days ago. Fighting memories of those events, she gazed out at the blue horizon and returned her thoughts to her upcoming return to Rabanastre, the far-off calls of gulls soothing her overwrought heart, the taste of salt in the air an unfamiliar but nevertheless refreshing sensation.

The wind blew gently, reminding her of a breeze's value in Rabanastre. As much as she had grown to resent the suffocating heat of her homeland, she dearly missed it and dreaded returning to it as the harbinger of war. Vaan and Penelo confirmed her fears with every word of false optimism and expression of doubtful hope—Dalmasca could survive no more violence; even the strongest spirits broke in the face of perpetual upheaval. Yet the bringing and keeping of order was among her first duties as Queen, and she had exhausted every other option of fulfilling this role, to the point that she no longer fully believed it could ever be fulfilled. In less than two days' time, she and her loyal companions would uproot the consistency of Archadian occupation in which her people had only just learned to take begrudging comfort, and although she knew of no sounder coarse, she could not help feel something of a failure.

She failed to inherit her father's throne, and she had failed to shield her people from subjugation. Indeed, she had even failed to locate Marquis Ondore, much less convince him to stay his forces. Still, with all that had happened lately and considering all that could have happened, she regretted one particular failure above all these. Many responsibilities burdened her as a member of the royal family, but foremost among these stood her duty to her people to produce an heir. She wished now that she had given Rasler a child—not only because the presence of one would lay to rest many concerns for Dalmasca and Nabradia, but because a piece of him would continue to live on, and she would not face the awful cycle of trepidation and reservation and pain in every decision laid before her these past two years.

Pausing a moment—checking herself—she wondered if in fact she merely wanted a little version of Rasler on which she could shower emotional compensation. Rasler's son or daughter could not replace him—could not raise him from his grave. Certainly no child could cure her remorse or grant her greater valor in combating the guilt-ridden Mist apparitions that haunted her. Thinking back on Lamont's words that night outside the Galtean Shrine, she saw bitterly the ways in which royal parents unwittingly used their children—indeed, they ways in which all parents used their children. The thought of the patronizing Occuria manipulating humans barely happened upon her when she noticed that Basch had wandered from his place behind her and now stood contemplatively at the end of a nearby sea dock, elbows resting on one of the great wooden posts at its corner, eyes turned out to the horizon in silence.

Hesitating momentarily—considering that she ought to take advantage of the rare occasions when her bodyguard would leave her to her own doings whenever they happened upon her—she approached on quiet, catlike feet, looking over her shoulder only once to ensure that no one followed. Standing beside him, knowing he felt her presence, she took a moment to evaluate her words, and then spoke delicately.

"…Do you still think about her?"

"…Constantly."

She studied him briefly, noting that his eyes turned a pale shade of teal so near to the cerulean of the ocean, and wondering if her own eyes regained some color in that moment.

As she gazed back out to sea, however, he turned subtly to inspect her countenance, raising an eyebrow with inquisitive mirth. "Still ridiculous?" he asked.

Her tone flattened immediately. "It wouldn't work."

"How do you know?"

"I just know, alright?"

Basch briefly looked remorseful, but his voice maintained its lighthearted tone and his eyes grew more supportive when she met them. "After I lost Rasler," he said, "I _knew_ I was useless, but I've managed to keep you alive so far."

"This is different…" she argued, shaking her head faintly.

"Ashe, he died—you didn't." He voice seemed softer now. "All he ever wanted was your happiness."

Suppressing a sigh, she momentarily broke eye-contact, her lower lip almost seeming to tremble like a crying child's. She hardly missed a beat, however, and spoke more reprovingly than she intended. "You've been widowed years longer than I have, and you haven't moved on yet."

"I don't need to move on to be happy," he replied calmly.

"And you think a pirate will help me?"

His voice grew stronger, mischievous once more. "He knows I'll kill him if he hurts you."

At last succumbing to his encouragement, she smirked sadly, turning her face to the wooden planks beneath her feet. "…You're a good babysitter, Basch."


	35. Chapter 34

I feel like I should give die-hard fans a heads-up that the _Bahamut_ scenes are going to play out very differently than they did in the game. Please don't be too disappointed—I'm trying to go for a more realistic approach. (I hope it works…)

_XXXIV._

Lamont felt utterly lost. He had told Vayne with stern resolve that he was going with him to fight the Resistance, and when the emperor refused, he simply explained that he was more than capable of stowing away, but would much rather go along with permission. Grudgingly, Vayne allowed it. Now, though, Monty felt fully the extent of regret, for he could do nothing more than watch his brother in silent agony. While Vayne organized the fleets with expert skill, the boy stood off to the side behind him, leaning lightly against Gabranth's armored side, mind spinning wearily, eyes fighting to stay dry. He felt sick to his stomach and on the brink of tears, but he could not bear to be completely useless, and so far his façade of bravery had held well.

Two days earlier, Vayne had asked him, seemingly out of nowhere, if he wanted to be emperor. He had honestly replied with a flat no, which appeared to greatly relieve Vayne, but at the same time confused him. Next, he asked if he had any interest in politics, and again, Monty said no. He then asked what he _did_ want to be, and Monty, somewhat frustrated, said, "I don't know. Why all the questions?"

Vayne had wavered for a moment, taken slightly aback. "…I'm…writing my will."

"…What?"

"You'll still have to be my successor until I have children, but—well, I just wasn't sure what to do with you after that. Now I know. No politics, right?"

"Um, right."

"…Okay, then."

He turned to leave, and Monty quickly asked, "What do _you_ want to be?"

Vayne paused again, with a look of what could only be fear in his eyes, and then, suddenly, the shadows seemed to pass and he once again returned to his usual self. "…A good brother."

Less recently, he had passed by the library and caught sight of Monty sitting on the floor against one of the many shelves with his face in a book. This was certainly not unusual, for he had been an avid reader since the onset of his fourth year, but this time his face was literally _in_ the book—pressed into its pages with no sign of coming up for air. Vayne had hesitantly approached, and, seeing that he remained still unnoticed, stopped at a reasonable distance and asked, "…Osmosis?" To this, Lamont had lowered the book and explained that he was merely smelling it—it reminded him of their father. Rather than argue, Vayne sat down beside him, took another book off the shelf, and joined in the smelling.

But the boy received no such solidarity now—Vayne did not even allow him any visible sympathy. From the deck of the _Bahamut_, the air brigade's newest and grandest vessel, the deserts of Dalmasca flew by with such speed that the sand below seemed stationary, and Vayne appeared hardly touched by the task toward which they journeyed, gazing listlessly at the sparse spattering of cacti that occasionally passed under the ship. Monty studied him hopefully, eager for any display of remorse or misgiving, but he knew none would come. The Resistance had pushed too hard too quickly, and now they would face the emperor's true power: four aerial fleets, fitted to fight for days, to take up chase all the way to Bhujerba if it came to that.

The _Bahamut_ served as a testament to human technology and as a warning to human civility. It was a death machine, though elegant in accommodations and sophisticated in design, and the very sight of it could easily send whatever force intended to challenge it into retreat. It boasted all the usual advantages of modern Archadian technology, but it towered above the competition in size and speed, designed specifically to facilitate the effective management of satellite kingdoms by swiftly delivering military might wherever need for it arose. An entire fleet was easily accommodated on its multiple stories of docking stations and armored repair hangars, and equipment to fix the most daunting of damaged ships—as well as the cargo holds required to store such things—rendered a single fleet independent of its home base in Archades for more than a year. It would keep the Archadian ships fighting at peak performance until the Resistance fell, and if they dared to flee, it would pursue them alongside the host of fleets until the conflict ended once and for all.

On the main bridge, soldiers and standby pilots calmly went about their business, all confident in the ship's supremacy and overjoyed to take part in its maiden voyage. Lamont had assisted Cid in a fair amount of the construction, incorporating the new nethicite-powered engine technology with the old man's upgraded light-weight steel design, but the pride of these victories paled now, and he found himself staring vacantly out the great window before him for hours on end, his mind blanked and his heart sore. The shining oasis of Rabanastre appeared on the yellow horizon, the sun beaming with strength that to an Archadian suggested midday, though it would sink behind the distant sand dunes in but two hours' time. Monty swallowed thickly.

Gabranth had remained a silent comfort throughout the day, resting his hand on Monty's shoulder protectively, and occasionally smoothing the boy's hair down as his father and brother so often did, but nothing could spare Lamont the terror of seeing Vayne in bare reality. Even now, his big brother conversed casually with the air station's pilots, readying the accompanying fleets so that they might flex their strength upon approaching the city in an effort to further intimidate the enemy. Monty admired the Resistance fighters, but also thought them indelibly stupid, and looked back with scorn on the idealism he himself had possessed when he came to Rabanastre last month. No doubt Vayne felt similarly, but Lamont caught something more sinister in the dark depths of his eyes—something shadowy, serpent-like.

Indeed, Vayne mirrored much of his brother's sentiment: he hoped to inspire in his own troops the blind courage with which Ondore's fought, and he certainly believed the Resistance brainless beyond any excuse of patriotism, and—cynical as he had been when he assumed the office of consul—he now felt certain that he had given the people of Dalmasca far more credit than they deserved. More than two full years of occupation had taught them nothing, and if he could not subdue them with mere threat of violence, he would revisit upon them the horror to which they had succumbed in the first place. Gramis would forever hold the title of conquerer, but Vayne would surpass him yet—he would finish his father's work and keep his hold on all of Ivalice, reforging the Galtean Alliance by the only means possible. Dalmasca would bow, Rozarria rushing to its aid, and once the initiation of conflict occurred over Archadian territory, he would at last overthrow the final bastion of independence in the world—Rozarria would fall, and Bhujerba with it, and whatever Gran Kiltias earned election on Bur-Omisace would have no choice but to recognize him as ruler of the new dynasty. Vayne set his jaw to keep from smiling in front of his men, his eyes trained outward on the nearing city, his justification ensured by his father's sword. What better blade than he to strike down the enemies of the Empire?

As Rabanastre drew into clearer view, a large number of mismatched airships became visible at its opposite side, readying themselves quickly, struggling to overtake the city in an effort to meet the Archadians above the empty sands beyond it. They sought to stage their battle away from civilians, but the _Bahamut_ and its companions would easily reach the city before the Resistance—and there they would await provocation, safe in the knowledge that Marquis Ondore had no other politically viable option.

Stirred by the sight of the Resistance fleet and by the stony aura of impassivity that descended upon his brother, Monty stepped forward, leaving Gabranth's side and nearing Vayne's. He kept his distance, and knew that Vayne noticed this, but he felt no more the closeness that they had shared before he came to understand the world, and nowhere within him could he find the strength to feign it for either of their sakes.

"…More than we predicted," he noted quietly.

"Not by much," Vayne replied, "and we've come more than over-prepared."

Lamont nodded, eyes trained out the window before them. Vayne glanced down at him, so small amid the Judges and soldiers, but so serious for a child, and at length he took in an awkward breath and continued:

"I wouldn't think any less of you if you decided not to watch."

"We're in this together," Monty replied, looking up with a glint of hope.

"You know very well we're not," said Vayne.

"That's not what I meant," said Monty.

Stillness settled between them once more, and Vayne struggled to gain some form of understanding: "I know you and Halim were good friends at one point, but we have our people to consider. If he stands down, I'll see that he's treated honorably."

"And the princess?" Monty asked.

"If she chooses to involve herself, she will have to face the consequences—surely, she has long been aware of that."

Monty's jaw tightened, but he hid his tension well. "I don't think they're working together."

"I hope you're right," Vayne replied coolly. "With her as Consul, we may yet form a working relationship with Dalmasca."

The boy seemed momentarily disgruntled, suspecting that Vayne mocked him, which in part he did. He shook his head, but said nothing, which did little to assuage Vayne's trepidation; Lamont always managed his anger in subversive and productive ways. His expression flattened to a strong veneer of composure that told the emperor he would not be discouraged, striking in him the fear that the little rascal may yet have something planned.

Out the expansive window before them, the Resistance fleet grew clearer in detail, the forms of airships designed in the styles of Dalmasca, Bhujerba, and Nabradia most prominent, though several Landisian vessels mingled here and there, as did a few of Archadian origin—Lamont wondered if they operated under command of defectors, or if they were merely stolen. A good half of the ships displayed signs of wear, though the grand Bhujerban vessel at the back of the formation—doubtless, Ondore's flagship—shone in the desert sun with near blinding freshness. The Archadian fleet drew to a halt above Rabanastre, settling there at Vayne's command, and the Resistance fighters slowed their pace, seeing that they would not engage their enemy beyond the walls of the city. They lingered over the empty Estersands, tentatively rearranging their formation, bracing themselves with fierce bravado.

After a moment of heavy silence, a trio of Resistance crafts ventured forward, buzzing about in the air above Rabanastre, but daring not near the Archadians. They returned to their places, and a pair of larger ships edged forward, canons raised. These mirrored the dawdling of the first three, darting about at random, tempting the enemy force with little promise of an attack. Vayne ordered all vessels to hold their positions, the assorted liaisons stationed at the _Bahamut's_ bridge relaying this order to their individual fleets' respective flagships.

"They're trying to draw us away from the city," he said calmly, visibly reassuring the various soldiers that sat anxiously at their posts.

Monty balled his fists momentarily before forcing himself to release them. He knew they needed a reliable host of witnesses to pull this off effectively, but the thought of the innocent civilians that most certainly cowered in the city below prodded at his sensibilities. If Ashelia meant to show herself, she had little more time in which to do it.

More ships set out to lure the Imperial forces away from Rabanastre's airspace—agile fighter ships zipped to and fro, sturdier battle vessels bared their guns menacingly—but Archadia stood firm, undaunted, for once the epitome of restraint. The subtle creak of Gabranth's armor behind him soothed Monty's nerves. At long last, one of Ondore's more heavily armed crafts approached a ship of similar size and purpose among the Archadian fleet, their metal shimmering in the rays of the sun as they faced each other, closer and closer. A single blast of laserfire erupted from one of the portside magicite canons affixed to the Resistance vessel, and with a satisfactory command from Vayne, three of the Imperial fleets took off, surrounding the now withdrawing Resistance right and left, prodding and shooting their way clear around the recoiling fleet to force them into Rabanastre's airspace.

"Ready the canons," Vayne ordered, spurring the _Bahamut's_ crew to action.

Monty looked to Vayne quickly, the deafening blast of magicite discharge forcing an air of exigency into his otherwise tranquil voice. "Vayne, they're retreating."

"We didn't come here just to scare them," Vayne deadpanned.

"Then arrest them."

"We've been arresting them for the past two years. The people of Dalmasca have been in need of an example for quite some time now." He sounded like their father. "Wouldn't you rather I use criminals than civilians?"

Monty stared at him with childish horror, but a soldier spoke before he could:

"Canons ready, sir."

Nearly choking on his words, Monty grabbed Vayne's sleeve desperately. "Brother, please!"

Vayne nodded to the soldier. "Fire."

The Resistance pilots conducted themselves with admirable skill, aiming and dodging with near effortless dexterity, but Monty knew the power of the _Bahamut's_ canons—they drew their power from manufactured nethicite, not the paltry magicite known to the rest of Ivalice. The thrum of the energy charge thundered through the airstation as the canons whirred with power, and after a fleeting instant of silence, four great beams of violet light ripped through the air, converging at the center into a thick pillar of blinding luminosity that tore through the dry desert air and any Resistance vessels that cluttered it.

One command ship dropped from the sky, a hole blown in its smoking flank, but it managed to sail clear of Rabanastre during its descent, landing in a puff of sand just beyond one of the major roads leading out of the city. However, two of the larger battleships also fell, both crashing against the invisible shield of energy that protected the city—the magicite-powered paling. In addition to all of this, a series of smaller vessels also spun out of control, dropping into plumes of smoke against the force field below. The paling managed to deflect them successfully, but its design could not withstand too many strikes—it was meant to prevent the passage of unauthorized vessels, not to ward off barrages of debris. The shock of the powerful blow caught much of the Resistance force off guard, allowing the Empire the tactical upper hand for a moment that resulted in many more casualties, but the marquis had trained his fleet well, and they swiftly regained control and fought all the harder. A haze of residual Mist clouded the hulking _Bahamut_, though it would take no more than ten minutes before the main canons would again await activation.

Thankfully, Vayne now ordered the crew of the _Bahamut_ to hold back to only defensive fire, stating that he would rather not obliterate the Resistance too quickly before the eyes of Dalmasca's royal city—they needed the appearance of sensible force if they hoped to gain lasting control over their new citizens. This did little to ease Lamont's nerves, though, and his eyes kept trained keenly on the quickly intensifying skirmish out the bridge window, pondering the true depth of his failure and the devastating effects it would wreak across Ivalice. He had hoped to salvage some of his country's reputation, but now he saw it just as the rest of the world had since the very year of his birth: callous, insatiable, and pretentious beyond all understanding. A lump formed in his throat that he couldn't swallow, though he hadn't the slightest idea what he could possibly do to diffuse the situation.

And suddenly a glimmer of light caught his eye. A small aircraft of Archadian design nimbly wove a path through the battle, haphazardly attempting to clear the fray in search of a safe area to hover—the _Strahl_. Feeling a twist of hope in his heart, Monty slowly released his brother's sleeve and stated honestly, "…I think I'm going to be sick."

Vayne looked over his shoulder to Gabranth. "Get him out of here."

The two left the bridge in silence, heading slowly down the winding steel halls—Monty pale and dazed, and Gabranth barely able to disguise his concern. Before long, Monty began to stagger, and Gabranth forced him into a secluded alcove—dim and littered with empty crates.

"Sit before you fall."

He did, and almost immediately his throat hitched and his chest began to heave. He tried to speak but couldn't, and the Judge pulled him forward so that he held his head between his knees.

"Shhh…deep breaths…"

"…I can't…" Monty wheezed.

Gabranth rubbed his back, easing his inhalations into a reliable rhythm. "It'll pass. Just focus on slowing down."

He closed his eyes, wrenched his hair in his fists, rocked slightly in search of stability. He knew he was hyperventilating, but he didn't know why. He wondered if this was what it was like to rule a country. Gabranth continued to massage his shoulders until they unlocked, and then gently pushed him back against the wall, letting him slouch a little as he caught his breath—an unseemly habit he had never gotten away with in his younger years.

"Better?" he asked.

Monty still couldn't speak, but gasped out a sore attempt and regarded Gabranth with wide, weary eyes. He had absent-mindedly reached into his pocket and pulled out the small chunk of nethicite Penelo had given him, and now he clasped it longingly in both hands, bleakly recalling what she had said of Vayne so long ago:

"He frightens me."

Still kneeling beside him, Gabranth brushed some of Monty's hair out of his face and smoothed it down. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded with a gulp. "…You sound…far away…"

"Can you see straight?"

"…Not really. Better than before. I don't know…You won't tell Vayne, will you?"

"Of course not."

Shuddering footsteps sounded in the winding metal halls—soldiers rushing to their posts as the conflict outside plummeted into chaos—and the echoes seemed to haunt Monty, setting a tremble in his hands reminiscent of a war-hardened soldier fighting to control an adrenaline rush. The boy had gone pale, and the contrast darkened his eyes, intensified his anguish.

"Come on," Gabranth continued gently. "You need to rest."

"No…"

"Monty—"

His gaze rigidly focused forward, distant and hollow. "He'll wipe out the Resistance and use Halim to take Bhujerba."

"Don't worry yourself with all that nonsense," Gabranth insisted.

"Rozarria will have to attack. They won't just wait to be conquered."

"Your brother can handle it."

"Dalmasca will be gone. Penelo's home—it'll all be gone."

"Monty, stop it!" He took the boy's face in his hands and forced him to meet his eyes—Monty had always thought it strange how he could do that through the steel. "This doesn't concern you, alright? You're not one of them. You never were."

Monty stared at him helplessly, still taking in uneven breaths, still clutching Penelo's nethicite. Slowly, Gabranth released him.

"…I—I'm sorry."

"I'm as much a Solidor as Vayne is," Monty told him firmly. "I don't like it either, but it was never for us to decide."

"I know."

He carefully got to his feet, steadying himself against the wall, and slipped the nethicite back into his pocket. "The _Strahl_ is out there somewhere."

The determination in his voice put Gabranth on edge. "Don't do anything stupid, Monty."

A small, terrified laugh answered him, and the young lord seemed to regain some spunk. Nevertheless, Gabranth could scarcely force himself to muster the confidence he usually placed in Lamont, instead finding himself shocked by how young he looked, and how small—and indeed for a moment the boy wholly felt both, if only because he perceived Gabranth looking on him as such. He regained his composure quickly, however, returning to the misplaced maturity he handled so aptly, and—squaring his shoulders with wretched cuteness—he bitterly spoke:

"What more would you expect of me? We have to contact the princess; she can deal with Halim."

"And I suppose you will deal with Vayne?"

"Can you think of anyone better suited?" Both hesitated a moment in shock; neither had ever heard nor expected such cynical sarcasm from Lamont.

"You overestimate your own importance, My Lord."

For once, he took comfort in the heavy helm that burdened all Judges, for surely Monty would otherwise catch the doubt in his eyes immediately. The boy's countenance firmed, his expression grim and resolute, and Gabranth knew that he would not easily win this argument, though at heart he wondered if indeed he wanted to. Since returning from the lighthouse, he had known with all certainty that an end must come to this conflict soon if any hope should remain for Ivalice. Trust dwindled in the royal city, all eagerly awaiting Vayne's final strike against the world's remaining sovereign lands, and ire continually mounted in the countries enslaved by this war, endangering Monty on all sides. He had felt more deeply with each passing day that he had in one way or another shamed himself and made mockery of Lord Lamont's trust—indeed he only remained head of the boy's cortege because Cid never made it back to report his betrayal to Vayne.

Yet even while he told himself that he could not allow Monty to put his life on the line for the sake of a war that Archadia would almost surely win, so too he knew that he could not abandon him to a world in which he would forever be known as a villain. As hard as he tried to look on the boy with strict authority, he could manage nothing more than a painful flood of empathy. He would give his life to protect Monty, but under his watch he had faced traumas that would devastate any other—he had lost his father to his brother, sacrificed his patriotism out of compassion for the occupied, and now, it seemed, he had suffered his first mental breakdown at the tender age of ten. The resilience of children had always astonished Gabranth, but still, his conscience battered him.

"Importance is worth nothing if it's not put good to use," Monty insisted. "We have to initiate negotiations before the Rozarrians interfere."

"You know very well that Vayne will have wiped out the Resistance long before then," Gabranth replied sternly.

"Then we have to work that much faster."

He shook his head, trying to hide the sigh of frustration in his tone. "Your brother isn't well. If you threaten his authority, there's no telling how he will react."

"Vayne thinks he can rule the world with strength and fear," Monty argued. "Or at least the voices in his head tell him he can. You know he won't be able to enforce his rule on so much land for more than a decade. The Resistance will regroup and all of Ivalice will turn on Archadia. If we don't stop this, they'll have no reason to show us even the slightest mercy when our time is up."

"Monty…"

"Didn't you swear your allegiance to Archadia? Isn't it your job to protect your country?"

"My job is to protect you, Lamont." The words sounded cold, wounded.

Monty fought to cast off the adorable innocence that all too frequently inhibited the severity of his determination, but he feared he could not fully ignore the warnings of one who had watched over him vigilantly from his infancy. In his more formative years, he would never have challenged any order delivered by his most loyal guardian; he had grown nearly unable to resist heeding the voice he had taken comfort in since his earliest days—impossibly gentle, even when marred by the damning ring of Judiciary steel. But although hearing words of doubt from the man who had raised him caused him to second-guess his own motives, he did not allow the reservation to linger in his mind for too long. Gabranth cared nothing for Archadia—Monty knew this—he cared only for Monty, and his safety trumped all else.

"Is that what you think you're doing?" the boy asked accusingly. "Sure, you can protect me now, but this isn't going to end. How long do you think it will be before he realizes he can't have me alive?" A fleeting pause, and then: "Are you going to protect me the same way Drace did?"

"Leave her out of this."

Drawing in a bracing breath, Monty unleashed his last resort: "Please, Noah…"


	36. Chapter 35

Just another warning: I've made some pretty big changes to the ending.

_XXXV._

Ashe sat in the copilot's seat, displacing Fran for her own fear of otherwise falling asleep in the cabin—though some part of her doubted she could sleep in such a mood. Vaan studied her from behind, afraid to speak. His heart leapt at the prospect of returning home to the city where his journey had begun, but it did not seem the same with the princess dourly staring at the horizon and his sister nervously fiddling with her hair. Even Balthier had fallen silent, and the boy briefly wondered if perhaps all of this anxiety and turmoil might have been avoided had he not stolen the Dusk Shard on the night of the fete so long ago.

However, watching Penelo despondently unknot the mess she had made of her hair, he recalled her words regarding the course of events that had led to their current circumstance. Had he ignored his foolish desires and given heed to her admonitions preceding the fete, Ashe and Basch would both surely remain prisoners of the Empire, and Vayne, with enough deifacted nethicite to rule the world ten times over, would have quashed all Resistance forces long ago—at least, in Vaan's young mind, this seemed the most likely outcome. If nothing else, Vaan would never have left Dalmasca, never formed the friendships that now sustained him. He wished he could bring some cheer to the princess's eyes, but he supposed it would take nothing short of Dalmasca's liberation to achieve that, and he intended to see it through as best he could.

Ashe had risen from her seat and begun to pace now, which seemed to further aggravate the others. Basch watched her closely, but made no attempt to move or speak, his thoughts scattered to many subjects and pondering each one of them deeply. At times during their travels, Vaan had wondered if perhaps Basch felt more than friendship for the princess, but he had ultimately decided that the two behaved far too civilly towards each other to be in love. On the same note, he had also decided against anything questionable taking place between Fran and Balthier; Fran could do much better. Interactions between his sister and Lamont, however, put him on edge, and he most often chose not to think about it. Looking to the princess once more, he hoped she could not guess what he thought about, for he could not adequately explain how his mind wandered terribly under stress, and she would certainly find such musings impertinently trivial in light of the conflict toward which they traveled. He couldn't help it.

But he knew the depth of her discontent, as did all of the others, and strove to ease her burden as best he could—he protected her to the very best of his ability, certainly, but he suspected that his hapless comments and foolish behavior often lifted her spirits far more than she let on. Penelo seemed to think similarly, and had made it her duty to turn Ashe's thoughts from war and subjugation as often as she could. Indeed, the princess had appeared much more at ease when they first set out earlier that morning, for Vaan and Penelo had piloted the _Strahl_ for much of the journey, tormenting Balthier with questions and near mishaps, drawing several lectures from him on the importance and preciousness of his "baby." In truth, the two knew quite well what they did and how to do it, and they only exaggerated their naivety for the sake of spreading cheer.

However, Balthier had taken over once they entered Dalmascan airspace, and although the others had engaged themselves in discussing any and all sorts of things, Ashe had slowly removed herself from the conversation, her gaze distant and her face stoic. She did not dread the upcoming confrontation as much as the others expected, though it did wear heavily on her thoughts. In truth, she worried more for the artificial nethicite, unnerved by her failure to destroy it alongside the deifacted. Surely, she thought, if it came from the source stone, then it could be permanently eliminated somehow. She wondered if Gerun might know something of this, but she dared not entertain the prospect. Thinking of the Occuria, her mind turned to the sword they had given her, and she lamented that the blade borne to rid the world of nethicite had perished with the Sun Cryst, leaving her with only the accursed Occurian sword that had created this atrocious stone weapon in the first place.

Out the cockpit window, the Dalmascan deserts flitted by, a desolate expanse of fine-grained sand, sprinkled with the occasional gathering of the vibrant sand lilies for which Dalmasca earned admiration among foreigners, and even a few herds of wild chocobos, their yellow feathers fluttering in the sun as they galloped. The country's beauty outweighed its barrenness, but none aboard the _Strahl_ currently possessed a willingness to take comfort in such a display.

Presently, Balthier called Fran to her usual seat, pointing out that faint readings had begun to appear on the ship's radar. She reported that they neared Rabanastre, but that two great hordes of airships would most certainly beat them there. In spite of the finality in her words, Balthier picked up the speed.

"I dreamed a warning from the gods last night," she said, unsurprised and indeed somewhat encouraged by his disregard for her expertise.

"And what was that?" he asked in return.

"That you would do something stupid."

This gleaned a few snickers from Vaan and Penelo, while Basch and Ashe both managed to maintain their amusement. Balthier rolled his eyes at the revelation, however, and spoke with as much Archadian haughtiness as he could muster: "Now, Fran, how am I ever to take these gods of yours seriously when they can scarcely send you dreams of eventualities that any mortal could just as easily foresee?"

"It is invectives like that that endear you to them," she answered with a small smile.

"I thought they hated me."

"I suppose they've taken pity on you."

"Tell them to take it back."

The mood lightened slightly, though all wondered wearily how long it would take for the Archadian and Resistance fleets to come to blows. The desert before them appeared endless, heat wavering above the sand in dancing mirages that endlessly slicked like oil across the horizon, but before long the verdant green oasis of Rabanastre faded into view, two clouds of shining ships nearing it slowly. The greater host rested above the city, while the smaller hesitated just beyond, its assortment of ragtag vessels rearranging cautiously.

Their conversation died down as the _Strahl_ slowed, dawdling from its vantage point just out of the fleets' reach. Ashe stood behind the skypirates, between their seats at the front of the cockpit, her eyes narrowed, straining to distinguish the origin of the Resistance ships. Recognizing one as the great rectangular flagship of Bhujerba's Air Brigade, her heart immediately sunk.

"The _Valefore_," she said, gesturing to the massive battleship as it hung stationary over the sand, glinting in the sun. "Ondore's flagship."

"Old man's got backbone," Balthier replied. "I'll give him that."

"Looks like no Rozarrians yet," Basch observed.

"But who knows how much longer Al-Mid can hold out for us," Ashe added.

Vaan straightened slightly, trying to steady his voice. "We have to end this fast, right?"

"It would seem that's our only hope," Ashe confirmed.

The Archadian fleets shifted then, and a new ship came into view. The cortege had at first thought that the sheer number of enemy vessels accounted for the density of the gathering, but as they spread out above the lively city, it became evident that something greater lingered there—something larger than any of them had ever seen.

"…What in God's name is that?" Basch asked quietly, studying the formation as Balthier edged the _Strahl_ closer.

The massive ship shone bright and new in the desert sun, its countless guns reflecting light in every direction, its colossal canons waiting in menacing silence to strike. The Resistance force did not appear threatened by the numbers of the fleet or the size of its flagship, however, sending a few vessels out to tempt the Archadians away from Rabanastre.

"The _Bahamut_," Balthier answered plainly. "They finally got it off the ground."

Ashe's eyes widened. "A docking station?"

He nodded. "To put it mildly. It's built to house an entire fleet."

"So they can outlast us and win without appearing to use unnecessary force," she concluded, shaking her head bitterly.

"They can't fight over Rabanastre," Penelo interrupted childishly. "They'll trash the whole city."

Balthier suppressed a groan. "I'm afraid that's the point."

"They're baiting us," Basch added.

Vaan squinted against the sun, studying the Resistance vessels that flew about carelessly, toying with the steadfast Archadian multitude. "Looks more like we're baited them," he noted.

Basch set his jaw tensely. "We're trying to."

"Halim," Ashe urged in a pleading whisper, "don't fall for it…"

"I would bet he knows damn well what will happen," Balthier assured her.

"Would you bet he has the sense to resist?" Fran replied.

The loitering fleets continued to stare each other down as a Resistance battleship crossed the divide slowly. Pausing for only a moment, it released a bolt of energy that struck an Imperial vessel full force, and at once the two forces collided.

"Damn it!" Ashe flared, gripping the backs of the pirate's seats.

Penelo drew her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and round with shock. "Oh, my goodness!"

"What do we do?" Vaan asked.

Ashe shook her head. "God, I don't know. Hail the _Valefore_."

Fran targeted the ship and sent out the query while Balthier piloted the _Strahl_ close enough that the marquis might recognize them. The Resistance began to recede, luring the enemy to follow, but the Imperial fleets had the whole of the brawl surrounded in a matter of minutes, pushing the fight into the air above Rabanastre and then launching a full-scale attack. Raising the _Strahl's_ shields and bracing for battle, Balthier edged forward warily, eyeing the numerous ships that zipped by, preparing to fire if the need arose.

Transparent clouds of Mist collected around the _Bahamut_ as its main canons took aim, and with stunning speed the great airstation unleashed a thick purple column of energy that barreled through the rebel force in a hail of thunder and sparks. Multiple ships dropped from the sky, most crashing down against Rabanastre's invisible paling, and a wave of mute shock overtook the princess and her cortege. The same sentiment seemed to sweep over the Resistance, for the Imperial fleets gained considerable ground in the ensuing moments, but the insurgents fought back, calling up astounding valor, and the _Bahamut_ stewed in Mist-shrouded stillness, dark and heavy, seemingly content to display its power only once for now.

"…We're screwed," Basch groaned at length.

Vaan threw his fists against an empty chair, scowling with rage and futility. "What the hell was that!"

"Artificial nethicite," Balthier answered jadedly, livid eyes betraying his alarm.

"No response," Fran reported.

Ashe's tone bordered on anger. "Again."

The confrontation quickly escalated after the _Bahamut's_ show of dominance, and the _Strahl_ hovered very near the perimeter of the fray now, the momentum of passing ships swaying it slightly, putting each passenger even more ill at ease. Although no one had yet fired on the stray ship, Balthier kept the _Strahl's_ sleek guns raised and monitored the sensors closely for incoming strikes. Unfortunate vessels continued to rain down over Rabanastre, and all knew that the paling could not withstand such a beating for long.

Fran shook her head, her ears swaying gracefully, and turned to Ashelia with sincere melancholy. "I'm sorry, Princess."

Shaking her head as well, Ashe turned from the cockpit window and again took up her frantic pacing, running her delicate hands through her hair, glowering at the floor in thought.

Basch mirrored the expression, but remained stationary behind Balthier, arms crossed and countenance brooding. "I never imagined Ondore would sink to such recklessness…" he said resentfully.

"He's fed up," Vaan offered, his tone more youthful than he had intended. "Happens to the best of us."

"He's a fool," Ashe growled in response.

"Whoa!" Balthier nearly laughed as the ship lurched, dodging a shot of magicite energy and firing to intercept another in transit. He spurred the _Strahl_ forward, counter-blasting a few shots before they could hit, and warned his passengers to hold on as he weaved through the battle to the distant relative safety of the Estersands. As the ship drifted and those aboard steadied themselves, he turned to Ashe and tried not to sound too patronizing. "So? Plan B?"

Suddenly a light flashed on the control board, accompanied by a diminutive tone that rang unenthusiastically at even intervals. All fell silent, recognizing this as a sign that another ship desired contact, and Fran studied the _Strahl_'s informational readout, reporting in a somber tone: "It's the _Bahamut_."

Ashe hesitated, her eyes trained out the cockpit window. "…Take it." And then, quickly: "But keep quiet."

Fran opened the channel, and the group stood in rapt silence, seeming to sink in unified relief when Monty's voice answered their acceptance.

"Balthier? Is the princess with you?"

"Whether I like it or not," he replied with a smirk.

"Are you alright?" Ashelia asked.

"Of course," he choked quickly. "I—I'm fine. Well, considering."

The princess could think of nothing to say. Her heart wilted at the shiver in his voice, frightened by how small he sounded—and how alone—but she feared any offer she might make to help him would only come across abrasive and condescending. Luckily, Penelo stepped in for her:

"Monty, what's wrong?"

A pause, and he answered with distinct resignation. "I don't know…there's something—not right about Vayne."

"Venat?" Balthier asked.

"Yes. He's getting worse."

"Are you alone?" Ashe added.

"I'm fine, really." The boy's reassurance sounded weak at best. "Gabranth will keep me out of trouble. It's the marquis I'm worried about. I can't stop this—I mean, I can't stop Vayne. He—he wouldn't normally do this. I know I sound ridiculous—"

"It's alright, Lamont," Ashe insisted.

"You can't make your brother's decisions for him," Vaan assured him.

"No kidding," Penelo added.

A weak laugh sounded on the intercom, barely audible, but enough to reward their efforts.

"The marquis isn't answering our hails," the princess went on. "Can you get us onto the _Bahamut_?"

A small pause, and for a moment Monty regained his usual composed tone. "…Why?"

"We'll show Vayne that I'm willing to cooperate," she said carefully.

"With all due respect, Princess, do you really expect me to believe that?"

Knowing that he could not see it, Ashe openly grimaced in frustration. "Your brother has every reason to kill you, Lamont," she said flatly. "And I _am_ willing to cooperate. I'll board the _Bahamut_ and you'll board the _Strahl_."

He mirrored her aggravation. "So I'll be safe and you'll be dead?"

"There is no way I'm letting you go in there alone, Ashe," Basch growled.

"That makes two of us," said Balthier.

"Three," added Vaan.

"Four," Penelo chimed in.

Fran sighed.

"We'll do it together," Lamont offered. "You'll show him your willingness and I'll convince him to accept it."

Ashe clenched her teeth. "You understand we haven't much time…"

Briefly, he sounded his own age: "If it comes down to it, we'll…I don't know. We'll sabotage the ship."

Vaan snickered. "Awesome."

"So are we decided?" asked Balthier.

"I suppose we have to be," Ashe answered.

"I can open up a docking station for you," said Monty, "but you'll have to watch your backs."

"Sounds good to me," Balthier replied.

Monty's voice softened. "One thing, though…"

"Yes?" asked Ashe.

"…You have to promise you won't hurt my brother."

"Lamont…"

"Promise."

"Alright," she sighed, nodding though she knew he could not see it. "I promise."

He, too, nodded in spite of their distance. "Okay. There's an empty dock on the starboard side—fourth floor. I'll have Gabranth call off the guards, but there's not much I can do about all the business going on outside."

"Let me handle that," Balthier replied cockily.

"Basch?" Monty asked.

Basch stepped up behind Ashe expectantly. "Yes?"

"Try to play nice."

"No guarantees," he replied with a gruff laugh.

The transmission ended abruptly, for Lamont had contacted them via a precariously tapped broadcast channel and did not know just how much security his maladroit hotwiring could provide. He stood at a control panel meant for use in emergency situations—when the main operational systems suffered heavy damage—and leaving it functional for too long a time would surely draw attention to the power readout on the bridge. Shutting the device down, he left the vacant room, returning to the dull light of the hallway beyond where Gabranth stood guard.

"Starboard on the fourth," he told him with weary bravado. "And mind your manners." This earned him a quizzical look from the Judge, perceptible even through the imposing metal helmet, and he tried to offer a smile as he finished, knowing it would go unappreciated. "Basch is with them."

Shaking his head disapprovingly, Gabranth strode off with his usual indifference, and Monty headed for the bridge, feeling altogether too little amid the suffocating walls of the magnificent machine on which he rode. He planned to tell Vayne that he felt ill so that he could excuse himself from the bridge without garnering too much consideration—with assurance that Gabranth looked after him, Vayne would not feel obligated to split his attention between his brother and the battle at hand. However, Monty doubted his ability to believably pull this scheme off and dreaded the reproach he would suffer once the emperor discovered his true intent.

Entering the bustling bridge, Monty found his brother collected as ever, gazing out the wide stretch of window and offering only a few commands to his soldiers—he had trained them well, and they needed little direction. Vayne seemed taller somehow, his eyes darker and his voice calmer, and the rest of the room faded around him, causing Monty to fear that he may break down again. Clenching his jaw and drawing back his shoulders, he carefully neared Vayne and struggled to mirror his composure. He wanted to embrace him, but the painful heat of treachery kept him in line.

"Feeling better?" Vayne asked quietly, glancing down as the boy approached.

"Somewhat."

He studied him for a moment, eyes sharp and compassionate, then looked over his shoulder and surveyed the room. "What happened to Gabranth?"

"…He's—cleaning up after me." The rush of color to his face effectively conveyed embarrassment rather than uneasiness, but even this small success did nothing to sooth Lamont's nerves. His recent experiences had made of him a better liar, and he lamented the comfort he took in it.

The aerial brawl had intensified considerably since he left, the Resistance sustaining heavy losses while the Empire continually called ships into the _Bahamut_ for repairs. Vayne had allowed for a small number of casualties so that he could later claim a hesitation to employ the wrath of the nethicite canons when it seemed more logical for the rebels to back down. Monty knew well enough that once the mêlée had inflicted enough carnage on Rabanastre, he would put the Resistance down quickly—supposedly in the city's defense. If all went according to plan, when the dust settled this day, the people of Dalmasca would have no choice but to hail their supposed savior as their undisputed emperor.

The _Strahl_ had successfully dodged its way through the battle, taking only a minor scrape that Balthier blamed on Fran's gods, and found the docking station on the _Bahamut's_ fourth floor open and welcoming. However, the passengers had barely disembarked when Rabanastre's paling at last gave out, momentarily flickering in a hail of fragile colors—much like the skin of a bubble—before finally withdrawing completely into the numerous magicite-powered engines posted at the city's walls. As she left the _Strahl_, Penelo witnessed the crashing of a few ships amidst the wildly bustling markets, marring the streets with the first of what would soon become many piles of fiery wreckage.

"The paling's gone…" she whimpered, gesturing out over the docking platform.

The others gathered to see, their expressions uniformly grave. Ashe's eyes radiated a crystalline blue against the afternoon sky, but she shook her head insistently at the sight, turning away and calling the others to follow. "We have to keep moving."

As they left the _Strahl's_ shadow, however, they met Gabranth near the ship's entrance, looking to them expectantly, nodding a subtle bow to Ashelia.

"Princess…" He grew still for a moment, his expression hidden beneath the dreadful helm, his intent indiscernible. "I don't suppose an apology will be nearly enough…"

"No…" she answered warily, studying him with callous hope. "…But getting us in will be a start."

This seemed to effectively end the confrontation, for neither wished to waste any time, but the pressure of the awkwardness weighed on them all as the Judge led them through the twisting tunnels of the _Bahamut_, taking the dimmer, quieter, less-trodden paths for the sake of secrecy. The lights flickered only once, when some poor fool dared to strike the airstation, and the distant zapping of defense rays pinged from outside, fading as they traveled farther into the belly of the grand ship. Its engines thrummed drearily in their strained minds, and its innards reeked of technology—low walls of silvery steel, bluish in some patches, not so shiny that the magicite-powered lights gleamed blindingly, but not so dull that darkness enveloped the snaking passageways. The great airstation seemed much like the underground burrow of some elusive animal—safe, extensive, and utterly impenetrable.

Ashe walked near Gabranth's side, slightly behind him and allowing a fair distance between them—as much as the cramped tunnels provided—and Basch stuck close at her back, poised to draw his sword on the slightest impulse. Half a step behind Basch, Vaan strode heatedly, glaring at the Judge, hoping he could sense his ire. Ashe knew that her guardians meant only to ensure her safety, but her thoughts drifted with each step, and before long she wished they would put aside their quarrels with Gabranth and focus on the task at hand.

And yet she herself could scarcely manage this, for she thought with increasing frequency of her own roiling anger. She had decided with firm resolve to model her own attitude after Basch's—to consider Gabranth's decisions and the choices forced upon him, and to at the very least try to put herself in his place. Vaan's words at the lighthouse had also struck her deeply, and she had pondered the purpose of brooding over past events for quite some time, concluding that it fostered only wrath and despair. It proved a rarity in Landisian culture to mention the past. They spoke of it only when it urgently mattered—not because they refused to acknowledge it, but simply because they felt that the past belonged in the past, and that its only purpose in the present or future was to prevent it from repeating itself. This seemed reasonable to her, but she wondered if Gabranth dwelt on his deeds at all. Regretting past actions certainly could not change them, but she felt as though his own remorse could satisfy her thirst for vengeance—if only she could know for sure that he regretted it.

The tension mounted as they continued, but their trek proved considerably shorter than it had seemed; they arrived at an unoccupied conference room quite shortly, and Balthier appeared far from impressed with the appointments. Only a drab metal table surrounded by similarly built chairs greeted them, all bolted to the floor to accommodate the shifts and pitches of flight.

"I know funding's always been tight," he noted, "but you'd think they could have at least sprung for a touch of paint."

"I guess even Archadia slums it sometimes," Vaan replied.

Their comments went unheard, for all surveyed the room with growing suspicion, and Gabranth at last voiced their unified concern:

"…Monty?"

Indeed, the boy did not await them as planned. They had docked a few minutes later than they intended, allowing time to fly the safest route to the station, yet they had somehow arrived first, and none entertained for even a moment the possibility that Monty could be running late.

Balthier folded his arms, though his tone sounded more perturbed than disgruntled. "Little runt can't go ten minutes without giving someone grief, can he?"

"He wouldn't screw this up," Gabranth replied, shaking his head slightly.

"Vayne?" Penelo's voice quavered with the name, and Gabranth nodded.

"My best guess."

"We need to find him," said Ashe.

"Before Vayne does," Vaan added.

Gabranth did not appear amused by their show of alarm, speaking sternly, though yet with a hint of apologetic respect for the princess. "This ship is swarming with soldiers. I'd hardly be doing my job if I let you run loose."

"We'll be fine," Balthier groaned. "You take the public places, we'll see how deep we can dig."

Ashe briefly closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. "Balthier…" Turning to the Judge and straightening her expression, she continued: "We'll wait here as long as we can, but we're returning to our ship at the first sign of trouble."

"Understandable," he answered with a short nod. "Just be careful. Vayne will crush Dalmasca if you're caught."

She shot him a glare that appeared simultaneously a challenge and an admonition, and he calmly made his exit, leaving the small party of intruders to their own devices. Ashe knew that staying would likely prove unwise, but she wanted so badly to have faith in Lamont that she resisted her urge to take her cortege and flee while the chance presented.

"We should leave," Basch said stonily.

"I know," she replied. "…But I don't…I suppose I'm not sure."

Fran shifted her weight, her tail wiggling somewhat. "This hasn't the feel of a trap…" she noted.

"Monty would never do that to us!" Penelo snapped quickly.

"Unless the poor brat went and got himself caught," Balthier added disinterestedly. "Maybe Vayne's already taken care of him."

Ashe tilted her head in thought. "We don't have time to wait," she insisted. "This ship can eliminate the entire Resistance whenever it wants to—assuming the Rozarrians don't make a mess of things sooner."

"That's probably what Vayne's waiting for," Basch agreed.

"What Lamont said earlier…" she went on. "About sabotaging the ship…"

A subtle silence descended upon the room, and Vaan grinned slyly. "…You serious?" he asked.

"Our goal wasn't to negotiate with Vayne," she confirmed. "It was to stop this battle."

"Now you're thinking like a queen," Balthier replied.

Penelo shook her head childishly, blonde hair swaying at her back. "But what about Monty! We can't just leave him!"

"I'm afraid we have no choice but to assume the worst for him," Ashe explained unhappily. "He wanted to end the violence; if he's failed, then that duty falls to us."

"But we'll look for him, won't we?" she pleaded, eyes large and somehow rounder than usual. "We have to at least try…"

"Of course," the princess assured her. "We won't abandon him. But we don't have much time; the paling's already fallen."

Vaan laid a hand on his sister's shoulder, trying to smile. "Don't worry, Penelo. Monty can take it as well as he can dish it."

"I know," she sighed. "Let's go, then. Rabanastre doesn't have long…"

With a confident smirk, Ashe led her cortege out of the dingy conference room and into the monotone halls beyond, calling on Balthier to lead them to the airstation's vitals. He seemed all too eager to bring the ship down, slowing only to ensure that each had sufficiently memorized their escape route, but a twinge of guilt gnawed at Ashe's mind. Assuming the poor boy still lived, they could not possibly hope to find him amid the numerous levels of the _Bahamut_. Indeed, it seemed unlikely that all of them would survive this excursion, and she hesitated at the thought of leading her dearest friends to their deaths, but she knew that freedom did not await them aboard the _Strahl_—they would remain fugitives all their lives if they abandoned this mission, and for that it seemed all the more acceptable to meet death in the struggle for success or the plight of failure.


	37. Chapter 36

_XXXVI._

"Lamont—a word?"

Monty gulped. He'd been in trouble enough to know when he stood no chance. Vayne stared at him steadily, his use of the boy's full name adding weight to his expression, and Monty obediently walked past him, through the open door to the unoccupied cargo hold beyond. He silently cursed himself for not thinking up an excuse to leave the bridge sooner, for Vayne had no doubt received the report just moments before he had planned to leave and disappear into the labyrinth of the _Bahamut's_ depths. A soldier had pulled him aside and whispered something to him; emergencies—unless critical—were always kept secret from the majority of a ship's crew for the sake of preventing panic. Vayne had excused himself, bidding Monty come along, and now that he closed the door at his back, it seemed as though all the world had collapsed upon them, and only the finality of truth remained.

Vayne stilled his breathing, gazing calmly at the bland surroundings, noting the second door across the room and the third high on the balcony above. Wire mesh closed off the upper floor, the lights behind it casting faint shadows over the wall below. Only crates and machinery accompanied them in the steel chamber.

"It seems an unfamiliar ship has docked on the fourth floor…" Vayne said dryly. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Monty lowered his face, glancing up at his brother childishly. "…I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you are."

"Vayne, you haven't been yourself since Father died." He fought the intrusion of doubt as he straightened his posture. "I'm just worried you're going to do something you'll regret."

Vayne met his eyes with a challenging glare, gesturing slightly more than Archadian etiquette allowed of royalty. "So, you decided to compromise the entire Imperial Air Brigade?" he demanded. "Has your logic completely abandoned you?"

"Me?" Monty bit back. "You're forcing a defeated fleet into battle! They're only going to hate you more."

He broke eye-contact for a moment. "If I let them off easy, they'll simply regroup and rise up again."

"Not if you grant them their sovereignty."

"And leave them to wreak their retribution on Archadia as they see fit?" Looking back to the boy, he quickly regained his composure, his tone growing from an accusation to a scoff. "You are full of hope, Little Brother, but you lack foresight—not everyone is as forgiving as you."

Lamont stepped forward in a candid attempt to close the unusually expansive gap between them. "Maybe not, but if you'd just try to lead by example—"

"It's not that simple!" He drew away, beginning to pace. "Even were their vengeance quelled, Rozarria has been waiting years for such an opportunity!"

"Rozarria is only so protective because Archadia has become the greater power in this war."

"Rozarria started this war!"

"Then Rozarria is our enemy, not Dalmasca—and not Nabradia or Landis, either!" The strength of his voice caught them both off guard, and as Vayne stopped to look at him once more, he softened his tone to a forceful plea: "Release them from occupation and Archadia will only be half the threat."

"All the more reason for them to attack," Vayne countered, shaking his head.

"If they do, it will be without merit. As we stand right now, you're inviting it."

"As we stand now, I can handle it." He, too, strove to lighten his tone, unwilling to berate his brother in the same soul-crushing way that their father had so effectively bullied Vayne himself into worthlessness and hate. "Without Dalmasca and Nabradia, our borders will be a nightmare," he said forcefully.

"Ashelia is willing to ally with us if we make her Queen," Monty replied, equally calm and compelling. "She will aid us if Rozarria attacks."

"She's lying."

This retort got a slight rise out of the boy, and for a moment he resembled his grandfather with startling clarity. "You barely know her! All she wants is freedom for her people. You're the one dragging this war on for your own pathetic ego."

"So, you're against me, too…"

Vayne trailed off with a knowing nod of realization and acceptance, but Lamont stepped forward yet again, nearing him bravely—or perhaps desperately; Vayne could not tell for sure.

"Of course not!" he replied. "How could I be? We're brothers!"

Vayne turned away, walking slowing toward an empty corner of the cargo bay. "Half-brothers."

"Vayne…"

The shock and helplessness conveyed in the wounded voice spurred the emperor to anger once more, though in struggling to suppress it, he found only a choking surge of heartache poised to take its place. "I am bringing us peace, Lamont," he growled quietly. "All it takes is a little patience."

His tone flattened: "And a little bloodshed."

"We have offered them amnesty; they chose violence."

They met eyes as he said this, but Lamont refused to succumb to defending a perspective for which Vayne held no empathy, instead turning to the only subject he felt certain the emperor cared to heed: "Even if you destroy all of Dalmasca, Rozarria can still match our military."

"But it won't have any need to once you marry into House Margrace," Vayne insisted.

Lamont tilted his head slightly, trying not to smile, for he could not bear the cruelty of it. "…A marriage treaty?" he scoffed, standing very still and puzzling over what logic his brother could possibly see in such nonsense. "Do you really expect that to work? The emperor has been planning the same thing all along—I marry one of his daughters, and he gains influence over Archadia."

Vayne huffed, turning away once more. "Hardly."

"The conflict will worsen, Vayne," Monty went on, again following him, drawing nearer to him. "You'll kill her, he'll kill me—either way, the war goes on."

Vayne looked on him with searing rage, his eyes savage and his mind tangled with thoughts of resentment and fear, and for an instant he could see the boy's mother, frozen in perpetual teenage youth. He had had this same conversation with her, hadn't he? He could recall what she wore that day, the jewels at her throat, the elegant plaiting of her hair, but her words eluded him. Had they even spoken at all? He had seldom said more to her than etiquette required. He never knew what to say to her—never. Gazing down at his little brother, noting the staunch glint of victory in his eyes, he pondered the soundness of a marriage treaty, and indeed the soundness of even granting the boy continued life. This unfortunate child had been a threat from the moment of his birth, and for no fault of his own. Vayne's elder brothers had let him live, and the consequences had fallen on them in perfect accordance. He tried to speak, to conjure up some excuse or apology or inquiry—anything that might bring peace to the argument—but he found with mounting horror that he didn't know what to say.

Monty's expression remained deadpan. "How's that for foresight?"

Pausing, turning away, Vayne composed himself and spoke into the empty corner in which they now stood trapped. "…You're too cute to play at treachery."

The boy glowered, cocking his head with fierce indignation, fighting to unclench his fists and suppress his urge to shout. "Why is everyone so fixated on how damn cute I am?" He spoke clearly, his voice a low growl that only barely kept Vayne from laughing at the question. "This is serious," he went on. "You'll bring the world to ruins just so you can rule it? What logic is there in that?"

"What do you care?" he snapped back, turning to face him, to meet his eyes. "Don't you hate politics?"

"We never appreciate the things we do well."

The child's calmness shook him, and his gaze fell to the floor gravely. "How bad is it?"

"They know about the troops in the mountains." A moment of silence, and he added, "…And the navy."

With a disgruntled sigh, Vayne shook his head, struggling to cast out the images of what he feared he may yet have to do. "Then now is not the time to bait Rozarria. We'll eliminate the marquis and stabilize Dalmasca and Bhujerba, and once the world is—"

"No!" The little interruption startled them both, and although Lamont respectfully lowered his voice, he did not miss a beat. "Vayne, Ivalice is not your property—don't you understand that! I know it's not my place to argue, but I can't let you do this."

"You mean you _won't_ let me do this."

"Perhaps I do, but that doesn't make any difference."

Vayne shook his head again, forcing the thoughts from his mind only to feel them creeping back from the shadows. Images of his elder brothers surfaced, foggy and taunting, and Judge Ferrinas and his unfathomable daughter—both wiser than any others Vayne had ever known—their words swarmed him, unintelligible, but somehow cautioning and consoling. Venat, too, tapped at his consciousness, but he beat her back with the others, looking down at the little boy who challenged him, trying to invent some manner of regaining his unwavering trust. Would he have to go through with it after all? Would Monty make him do it? Surely, his little brother was neither so conceited nor so stupid to think he wouldn't kill him to protect his throne.

"Ivalice may not belong to me, but it needs me," he insisted. "I don't want this war anymore than you do. If all the world is one empire there won't be any need to continue stirring up conflict."

"Can you even hear what you're saying?" Monty replied.

Grabbing the boy by one arm and pulling him closer, he stared him down authoritatively and shook him. "Why do you always have to be so contrary, Monty? Just listen to me."

He went rigid in Vayne's grasp, gaze intent and strong. "Just _agree_ with you?"

"Yes!" he flared, pushing the boy hard against a wall. "You have to—please! I don't know how to make you understand. You're all I have left!"

He knelt before him now, both of them small and trembling in the dim metallic corner, and Monty stared at him uncomprehendingly as his iron grip on his shoulders relaxed.

"You're scaring me…"

"I have gone out of my way to let you live," he groaned with a heavy sigh, "but you just can't keep yourself out of trouble, can you?"

Monty shook his head. "I'm sorry. You know you haven't been yourself…"

"I thought you knew what I was—that you accepted it or at the very least forgave me for it. But it's never been like that, has it?" The boy tried to slip past him, but his grasp tightened, digging into youthful muscle, bruising half-grown bones. "You've only ever loved me because you didn't know any better."

"What?"

The confusion on his face pained Vayne, but he could no longer blindly accept its authenticity. "You never knew what I really was all those years, did you?" His voice stayed low and steady, and he raised Lamont off the floor, rising to full height, slamming him against the steel wall panel so that a shudder echoed through the miserable chamber, ringing in Monty's ears. "You turned on me the moment you saw the truth…"

"…Vayne, come on. You don't have to do this."

He moved his right hand to the boy's throat and squeezed. "You give me no choice."

Monty choked quietly, feeling as though his neck would snap long before he would suffocate. He gripped his brother's wrists, but could find no strength while burdened under such a lack of air, not that he would have had the power to free himself to begin with. In a desperate act of instinct, he gathered all the energy he could and kicked Vayne directly between the legs, causing him to release his hold and double over in pain. Monty dropped to the floor and immediately seized his father's sword from its sheath at Vayne's side, then scrambled to his feet.

"I've been fencing since I could walk," he warned weakly, backing away with the blade readied.

"So have I," Vayne replied, drawing his own sword.

"I beat you in practice."

"I let you."

Vayne struck quickly, not quite so hard as he might at any other opponent, but hard enough to gain a bit of ground. Monty parried the blow and threw it off, parting their blades and continuing to back up warily, his expression mired with pale horror and childlike desperation. Confusion continued to flood his eyes, seemingly pure to Vayne, and indeed the boy did not feign it, but rather felt it wholly and deeply—but Vayne had raised his guard and would not be easily persuaded to let it back down. Like a slow trickle, Lamont's fear and bewilderment gave way to devastation at the realization that his brother truly believed the terrible things he said, and though he kept his sword raised, he struggled to steady his voice and speak reassuringly:

"You're still my brother, Vayne." Another strike answered him, swifter and heavier than the first, but he deflected it with great effort and continued. "I don't care what you think you are, alright? You're my brother."

Still more blows fell upon him, and while he blocked every one, he could not match the increasing ferocity, tripping up as he backed away and nearly falling in such a manner that would open a deadly gap. He persevered, however, and put a fair distance between them, allowing Vayne to circle slightly, edging him around and backing him slowly toward the corner once more. They had sparred for play often enough, but he had never seen the boy recover so well and knew that holding back as he usually did would get him nowhere.

"I knew from the first time I saw you you'd be the end of me," he said slowly.

"So why didn't you kill me then?" Monty asked in reply.

"I deserve it." He seemed to nod a bit with this—nearly imperceptible—and a faint smile threatened to break the intensity of his countenance, revealing only briefly the distraught pang of panic within his heart. "I know you'll never understand, Monty, but you're the worst punishment I could have ever received."

Monty hesitated—stilled—looking into the emperor's eyes with a wavering compassion that bordered on pity. He had despised futility for all the days of his short life, but he would not fight his brother any longer—even for his country, he would not sink to this level of betrayal. "…I do understand." He dropped his father's sword, letting it clang gracelessly against the metal floor. "I've done all I can do here. Go ahead and punish yourself to your heart's content."

Vayne's perception seemed to slow then, the words moving listlessly, yet hitting him with overwhelming force. This little brother he had cared for so deeply for so many years had always possessed more wisdom than he himself could hope to attain, but for the first time in his life, he refused to believe it. Monty talked big, but he was only a boy; Vayne, an adult—an emperor in his own right—knew what was best for his brother and for his country, and he would not let the ambitious naïveté of his only remaining rival ruin the great work he could do for Ivalice and its inhabitants.

Thinking back now to the months preceding Lamont's birth, he struggled frantically to recall a conversation he had had with the boy's mother concerning such things as succession and monarchy. Hadn't they spoken of this once? On second thought, did they ever speak at all? He recalled the balcony, the gleam of her black hair—the only time they had shared each other's exclusive company, save for the dreadful day when he had sought her out to tell her of her father's untimely demise at his side. They could not have talked about Monty then, or any matters of state, but that day on the balcony…

No, they had never discussed anything of this caliber; indeed, they spoke so rarely that they never received the chance. The calm resign of Lamont's countenance roused Vayne's memory, and he knew that on that day, two weeks before the boy's birth, they had talked of nothing consequential. The sun had neared its height, and she wore pink—delicate and pale against the gentle blue of the sky as she stood on the balcony off the fourth floor drawing room. The white expanse of her private garden sprawled below, and she smiled congenially as Doctor Cid chased his wife through it, their coy laughter floating upwards on the breeze. Vayne had come to fetch her—his father had some business about which he sought her opinion. Drace stood watch silently, and Zecht remained distant at the back of the room as Vayne approached his stepmother, and all three wondered at the strange elegance she managed, even in the heaviness of pregnancy—she did not stoop or waddle as other women needed, and from behind she appeared as trim-waisted as any other girl. Vayne could not look at her belly—even at seventeen, the thought made him blush.

"The emperor has been looking for you," he said plainly, lingering a few paces behind her.

"Something about the new library, I suppose," she replied.

"I believe so."

She did not make to leave, and his throat seemed to stick as he searched for something more to say. His late protector, Judge Ferrinas, had always possessed a dignified manner of speech that allowed him the gift of saying exactly what each conversation called for—no more and no less. His daughter followed closely after him, but Ferrinas had understood Vayne's disposition and Vayne had understood his; he had no bearing on this woman by which he could adjudge what she wished to hear from him. At heart, he feared she hated him, for he had brought about her father's death in the field of battle. Had he not behaved so repugnantly young and brash and foolish that day on the border of Landis, Ferrinas would yet live and she may never have met Gramis, much less shared his throne. But somehow, it seemed fair to Vayne: he had killed her father and she had married his.

Hearing the shift of armor as both Judges behind him sensed his discomfort, he turned to leave, taking only a single step before she called him back:

"Vayne?"

"Yes?"

She faced him now, a small smile briefly crossing her face, and she continued a bit awkwardly, "That's strange. I have never called you Vayne before."

He nodded. "I suppose it's your prerogative."

Now something changed in her expression—a seriousness that overcame her as she tilted her head a bit. She seemed uncommonly bright somehow, the sun above her and the wide blue sky at her back, but he thought perhaps that from the comparative darkness of the room in which he stood, he could not hope to escape such an illusion.

"…You think I'm—greedy, don't you?" she asked, eyes sullen and tone soft. "After His Majesty's power…"

"I—beg your pardon?"

He nearly drew back as he said it, and she quickly spoke again: "Please don't hate me—my father couldn't bear that."

Shaking his head and chancing another step forward, he met her gaze as intensely as he would have met her father's. "I don't hate you, my lady," he insisted. "I would never think you were out for the throne…" He halted then, minding his boundaries. "It's just that—forgive me, but I have trouble understanding you…"

Lowering her head momentarily in a demure gesture of curiosity, she asked, "…Really?"

"I understand that it's none of my business," he stammered quietly, "but you hardly knew each other when you married. I can see that you don't love him."

"Not as I should, perhaps—I can't deny that. But he's been so kind to me. I do love him in that way."

"And that's enough?"

She glanced off to the side, long lashes batting in contemplation. "…A marriage is a contract," she said slowly. "And no one ever talks about what exactly is exchanged. I was poor and your father was lonely…and I suppose I was lonely, too, for that matter. We didn't agree to love each other; we agreed to care for each other."

"Is it really so simple to you?" he pressed, fighting to keep his tone respectful—truly, he asked out of genuine curiosity rather than contempt. "Just that easily, you settled for a husband who could just as easily be your father?"

"Settled?" she asked back. "Haven't you seen the way your father treats me? Even were I not an empress, I would always be one in his eyes."

"But you don't love him…"

"He knows that. He's given me someone to love." A faint smile lit her face, and she did not draw a hand to the swell in her gown, but her voice made the point clear. "In all truth, I didn't have much say in this marriage, but I don't regret it."

"But you would never have even met him if I'd just kept my head about me—" Looking away bitterly—just briefly—he straightened and calmed. "God, I'm sorry. That's not for me to say."

Her eyes grew gentler, though her face lost all emotion, and he averted his gaze like a scolded child, studying the countryside in the distance before glancing down to the fine stone tile of the balcony's floor. She had cried when he told her of her father, and it had seemed as though everything he said to console her went unheard—she only thanked him. Nothing had changed now, he thought, and cursed himself for daring to breach the subject again.

At length, she left the balcony, walking swiftly past him. "…I shouldn't keep him waiting."

No suitable phrase of apology or solace came to him, so he bowed his head chivalrously and turned only halfway as she retreated across the room. Drace awaited her at the doorway, but she paused before leaving, turning back to Vayne with more compassion than he ever felt he could deserve.

"You shouldn't feel guilty, you know."

Facing her, he could grant her only a puzzled expression in response.

"That he died protecting you," she went on. "My father considered you the son he never had. He was happy to die for you; I know it."

His eyes rested on her sedately, his mind devoid of words. She appeared too sincere to smile, though her tone expressed her honesty, and she turned then and left, the train of her gown fluttering lightly behind her.

Perhaps they had spoken of his trials that day—perhaps brotherhood, too, was a contract, and neither he nor Lamont had succeeded in holding up their ends, though he could hardly fathom just what exactly they had promised to exchange. But Monty could not possibly care for him; no one could—not even he himself. He had never managed to face it over the past ten years, but somewhere in the depths of his heart he had always known that Monty would grow to hate him as all good men must, and now that it came time, he could only do what best served the boy's interest: relieve him of this all too cumbersome load. He could not kill himself, for Ivalice needed him—to leave Lamont with that burden would surpass cruelty—but he could spare Lamont the pain of betrayal. Surely, the empress would understand this.

Indeed, if she had known him for his true self, she would never have trusted him—never have borne a child into his House—but she, like Lamont, and like Judge Ferrinas before them, had fallen victim to ignorance of his true wretchedness, and he would not allow such deception to continue to plague his family. Perhaps he might have grown to love her as family, if only she had lived but a little longer, but fate had wrought its brutality full force, and in two weeks' time she left the world—and now he meant to send her son after her. Somehow, the boy lied unconscious at his feet; he had knocked him out, he recalled—with the hilt of his sword, rather quickly after Lamont had surrendered.

More and more frequently, his mind played such tricks, but Venat assured him he would adapt to it and it would serve him well as ruler of an empire. Still, he stepped back from the motionless boy, then to the side, and then to the other side. His sword grew heavier, he thought, and time slowed, and finally he knelt down at his brother's side. Heavy, steel-laden footsteps fleetingly drew his attention as Gabranth entered the room, calm and alert as a herding dog in search of a wayward sheep, but he did not bother to acknowledge the approaching Judge, training the rich brown depths of his eyes on the unconscious child before him.

"…God, why can't I do it?"

Gabranth glared at the emperor critically, his voice a low and calculated growl. "Vayne…"

"I thought…He wouldn't be awake for it—it would be less painful this way."

Seeing that Vayne neither released his blade nor backed away from Lamont, Gabranth at last drew his sword.

"Hm." Vayne almost laughed. "The hound strays. Treason carries a high price."

"One I'll gladly pay."


	38. Chapter 37

Yet another warning, since I don't want people to get their hopes up only to be disappointed…I changed the ending a lot. This isn't how it went down in the game.

_XXXVII._

Chalky Mist pooled in the engine room, smothering the air with the scent of vinegar and forming specks of corrosive white crust on various portions of the walls and machines surrounding the power core. Magicite produced a similar byproduct, but never to such a great extent, and certainly never so quickly. Ashelia and her cortege struggled through the opaque puffs that intermittently choked their vision, taking refuge beneath a jutting platform where the Mist bypassed them. From this vantage point, they surveyed much of the extensive engine, which consisted of countless chambers containing glowing stones, all pulsing a bright and horrendous red hue that seemed to turn the Mist to blood. These engine cores stretched up and down the entire length of the ship, a winding case of grated metal stairs spiraling around them and somewhat flimsy catwalks providing closer access at various points.

All in the cortege began to wonder at the soundness of their original plan, suspecting that sabotaging this ship may only worsen the ordeal outside and seal their own fates. The princess did not appear ready to easily change her mind, but her hesitance made itself known through her thinning veil of bravado. The threatening snarl of engines punctuated her expression, but she did not speak, looking over the labyrinth of machinery and the whirlwind of Mist, narrowing her eyes and clenching her jaw, one hand resting on the hilt of Azelas's sword. Fran dared to step forward from their hiding place, noting with her perceptive ears that the few guards present on the other levels could neither see them through the crimson clouds nor hear them over the thrum of machines. Feeling the bitter Mist on her skin, sensing its deft taste as it permeated her lungs, she wrinkled her nose and struggled to better observe the swelling plumes as they freed themselves from the engines. This Mist dissipated fast and left thick deposits of acerbic dust in its wake; it did not seem right, its fragrance devoid of the usual refreshing cleanness, its reflective qualities skewed in comparison to normal Mist—the proportions more accurate, but the colors bizarrely reversed.

"Strange…" she said at last, raising her voice only high enough to reach her companions over the racket. "This Mist does not have much feeling to it."

The glint of suspicion darkened Balthier's eyes as well, though he weighed the elusive properties of the Mist against science rather than sensation. "It's artificial," he said peevishly.

Venturing forth slightly, the others glanced up and down at the massive system of valves, vaults, and pipes, realizing that everything from the glow to the intensity to even the temperature of the rising fog differed from the ordinary. Indeed, innumerable chunks of artificial nethicite powered the impressive vessel, working as efficiently as four or five times its weight in magicite.

"I thought we got rid of all the nethicite," Vaan protested, turning his gaze from the colossal hover apparatus to Balthier. "I mean, you said the fake stuff was only part of the real stuff, right?"

The pirate showed little interest in the engine, shaking his head faintly in contemplation. "It's deifacted nethicite fused with magicite—it should have died out with the Sun Cryst. There should only be magicite left."

"Then Cid really did create something new altogether?" Basch asked.

Balthier's eyes grew intense, and he shook his head a bit harder. "…He couldn't have."

"Believe it or not, Balthier," Penelo injected, "you have been wrong before."

"…What if it's some sort of preservation system?" he suggested, taking a few slow, aimless steps. "The magicite protected the nethicite so it wouldn't be affected by the Sun Cryst…"

Vaan ran his eyes over the maze of machinery above. "So we just have to chop every piece of it open?"

"That didn't seem to help at the Galtean Shrine," Basch replied sternly.

Balthier continued pacing. "No, that couldn't be it…"

"You're thinking too hard," said Fran.

"…He made something new," he went on. "Not nethicite, but not magicite, either…It has to be a different kind of stone. You can't eliminate an ingredient and get the same reaction…They're similar, but they're not the same…"

Ashe studied him intently, her eyes cloudy and opaque in the fiery light of the damp chamber. "All of the deifacted nethicite was connected somehow," she offered carefully. "Destroying the source destroyed the shards. Couldn't that apply to the artificial nethicite, as well? If they're so similar?"

"It would have to," Balthier answered. "They're cousins, after all; they're made of the same stuff."

"So," Fran added, "where would Doctor Cid keep the original piece of his nethicite?"

Vaan groaned, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes.

"We don't exactly have time to go back to Archades and search Draklor," said Basch.

"What good would that do us, anyway?" Ashe continued. "We've lost Raithwall's sword."

Timidly—childishly—Penelo took a little emerald-hued shard of artificial nethicite out of her pocket, holding it out helplessly. "…Umm…Monty said this was the first."

Balthier resisted rolling his eyes, if only to keep from exacerbating the dismay that descended upon each of them. Ashe had tested Raithwall's blade on that very piece of nethicite to no avail. "Then the sword wouldn't be much help, would it?" he asked.

"So much for that idea," Vaan sighed.

"It doesn't make any sense, though," Balthier insisted, running a hand through his hair and leaning against a wall. "I went over the old bastard's equations myself—there was no other way he could have done it…"

Ashe stared coldly at the _Bahamut's_ engine. "With Venat's help, there's no telling what he did."

"Venat…" Balthier echoed with a growl.

None seemed able to add anything useful to the discussion, and in that instant a shudder ran down one of the walls, muted within the confines of the corner in which they stood, but certainly thundering from inside the room adjacent. The group fell silent, bracing for the worst, hoping that a crate had fallen loose of its stack and nothing more. Just as they relaxed enough to brush it off as a typical operational noise of the grand ship, the faint chime of swords meeting rang through the air, audible even over the rush of engines, spurring a surge of urgency in each of them.

"We're busted?" Vaan whispered skittishly.

The clanging again ceased momentarily, and none dared answer in the silence. The engines whirred, and the group gathered closer in the alcove, listening with concentrated stillness. After a moment more, Ashe spoke:

"…We should go back to the _Strahl_."

"My thoughts exactly," Basch replied.

At once, the clamor started up again, this time far fiercer in speed and volume, each blow reverberating clearly throughout the metal walls, but softening against the din that filled the engine room. The noise seemed to carry from a small air duct near the platform above them, and although it proved far too tiny to admit passage into the next room, it clarified the clashing of steel unmistakably. Ashe briefly wondered if perhaps it admitted the amplification of their voices into the next room, but they had heard no voice before or after the racket of battle, so she decided they yet remained safe.

"What the hell is going on?" she huffed.

"Does it really matter?" asked Basch. "You're no good to Dalmasca dead. We should leave while we still can."

"Since when are you such a coward?" Balthier interjected.

"Shut up." The reprimand came from both Ashe and Basch in unison, gleaning a nervous giggle from Penelo.

"We're checking it out," Ashe said definitively, vanishing into the Mist, heading for the nearest door.

"Highness," Basch insisted, following after her, "either the ship's been breached or our plan's been uncovered—"

"Either way, we have to lend a hand."

"Then we will—as soon as you're safe."

Pulling the door open quickly in an effective attempt to silence him, she glanced out into the halls and found them opportunely vacant. The others gathered in behind her, and after another moment's caution, she gestured them onward, moving quickly and quietly to the door of the next room, following the distant ring of steel and noting that the solid door prevented it from resonating too loudly in the corridor.

The room beyond stored many crates of miscellaneous cargo, stacked into high towers and strapped down in an ominous jumble of ropes and netting. The princess and her cortege entered on a balcony overlooking the level below, though the grated metal stairway connecting the two floors remained sealed off by a flimsy but nevertheless protective expanse of wire mesh—a heavy lock clamped shut the only gate leading past it. None spared time to comment on the enclosure, however, for their attention quickly flew to the lower level, where they found Vayne and Gabranth dueling violently, swinging steel faster than untrained eyes could see, exchanging blows with growing force. Monty had regained consciousness and huddled on his hands and knees in the corner, coughing up blood.

The sight spurred Penelo to action, drawing her sword and charging the gate leading down, hacking at it with all the force her tiny frame could muster, scantly denting the barrier. The others dashed to her aid, chopping through the wires, cursing the shameful pace of their progress, but only Balthier noticed the princess turn and rush back out the door through which they had entered. Seeing the door on the opposite wall that led into the room's lower level, he immediately caught on to her half-witted impulse and followed after her, though he knew he would not catch her in time. She met no opposition in the hallway, but had drawn Azelas's sword anyway, and he drew his own as she disappeared into the dark metal stairwell, praying that their luck might hold until he at least reached a range at which he might protect her.

It only occurred to Balthier as he and Ashe descended the echoing flights of stairs that he may gain quicker access by picking the lock that closed off the balcony from the lower floor. But someone had to protect the princess, and it didn't appear as though Basch or Vaan even noticed that she did not join them in blindly attacking the gate above, and so he kept up his chase. The halls had proven deserted, the _Bahamut's_ crew thankfully hard at work elsewhere, but it seemed likely that a fair number of soldiers would pass through on business, and if one should hear the ferocious clanging of metal and opt to investigate, their predicament would quickly worsen. As they burst through the door to the main chamber of the cargo hold, Ashelia did not even allow Balthier the time to shout a warning to her before she leapt into the fight.

"Vayne!" She caught his blade against hers and threw him off, then sturdily planted herself between him and Gabranth, sword raised only slightly in defense. "What's wrong with you? This isn't going to solve anything."

"And is that what you're here to do?" he growled in return. "Solve things?"

Balthier noted the exasperated expression of his companions on the balcony, but he could do nothing to help the situation now, and thus he raised his sword and stood ready to defend Ashe.

"We came here to negotiate," she insisted. "Stop this nonsense and do what is best for your country!"

"I'm doing what is best for the world," the emperor replied.

"And what about what's best for your brother?"

Monty knelt dizzily in the corner, yet unable to rise. His father's sword lay resignedly beside him.

"He's better off dead than a puppet of Dalmasca!" Vayne snapped, and with his, he again took up the battle, striking fiercely at the princess while fending off Balthier and Gabranth with expert skill. Above them, the rest of Ashe's cortege broke through the wire meshing and made to join the brawl, but it did not last long enough to welcome their aid. Vayne threw Balthier off, and although the pirate quickly rolled to his feet, the emperor took the opportunity to thrust his sword upwards through the gap Ashe left while distracted by Balthier's welfare. She, too, fell to the ground, however, swiftly tackled by Gabranth. The resounding ring of steel against steel pierced the air, followed by a gritting sliding noise as Vayne's blade came free of the Judge's armor, blood glistening along the edge.

Ashe struggled to stand, noting that Gabranth's sword had fallen from his grip as he pushed her away, and Balthier joined the others as they charged, but Vayne's speed out-matched them all. Planting a boot on Gabranth's torso to hold him down, he raised the sword high, prepared to slice the Judge's head clean off, but halted abruptly in mid-stroke, struggling to catch his breath. He glanced down wearily to see a blade protruding from his chest, and slumped to the left, sliding off the sword and landing with a thud beside Gabranth. Behind him stood Monty, pale and horrified, who dropped the sword with a wet clatter and frantically knelt at his brother's side, carefully pushing him onto his back, out of the growing puddle of blood. All others in the dreary chamber fell still and silent.

"…Vayne?"

The emperor laughed with a bitter wheeze and weakly scruffed Lamont's hair. "…Well done."

"I'm sorry." He returned the gesture as best he could, but lacked the emotion.

"Don't be…" Vayne whispered. "…I love you, Monty."

"I love you, too," he replied deftly.

All too simply, it ended, and profound silence overcame the room with a chillingly hushed intensity. The princess's cortege stood uncomfortably with bared swords lowered to their sides, and Gabranth sat dismally, hunched slightly, morosely unreadable. Monty grew very still, and Penelo wavered a bit—imperceptibly swayed on her toes—debating whether her affection and sympathy would meet gratitude or only greater sorrow should she express them. Ultimately, she decided against it—the boy didn't seem able to function for the moment, and if even Gabranth wouldn't touch him, then she presumed that she shouldn't, either.

The fleeting moment of motionlessness seemed far longer until the subtle scrape of steel broke it—only when Gabranth shifted did the passage of time return and indicate to them that mere seconds had passed. Gabranth knelt beside Monty, a bit of blood smeared on the metal floor where he had fallen, but he made no move to console the stunned boy.

"…Lamont," Ashe offered at length, her voice soft, "I'm so sorry."

He looked up abruptly, but seemed to stare through her—beyond her—prompting her to turn. At her back, the air faltered, forming a mirror-like pane similar to the reflective surface of Mist. Murky clouds darkened and grew, swirling blacks and purples into ripples of intangible flesh that seemed to swallow light as they solidified. Ashe drew back, Vaan and Basch flanking her protectively, but Lamont adopted a sharpened expression of curiosity, his gaze intensifying as at last the oily voice of Venat filled the room in genderless whispers:

"Pay no heed to the despair that grips you—your brother would not wish it. We should rejoice in his liberation from the life of responsibility that burdened him."

"Leave him alone," Ashe warned, blocking the creature's advance.

Venat hovered in place, but did not cease her appeal. "He bore the strain of monarchy that you might live a life of freedom, but the stress would surely have overcome him in the end. Do not mourn for Vayne—he is free of his own suffering at last, and you can see his mission done."

Monty continued to stare at the fluttering being uncomprehendingly while Penelo stepped to his side and Gabranth reclaimed his sword.

"We are not your puppets, Venat," said Ashe. "You have no more right to control our species than we have to control yours."

"Would you truly speak of puppets when in the same breath you speak for Lamont?" Venat countered calmly. "He can bring peace to our world—a privilege you forsook when you sold your allegiance to Gerun."

Ashe delivered one of her acute glares, but seemed lost for words, and Fran, who lingered with Balthier at Venat's side, tilted her head back knowingly and spoke:

"Perhaps if you and Gerun would settle your own problems between yourselves, you'd have no need for human puppets."

Venat turned to glance at her with glowing gold eyes, her tone haughty and cool. "Perhaps we ought to hide away like the Viera and claim ignorance of the bloodshed committed by others?"

"Better that than exacerbating it," Fran replied.

"The Occuria ruled this world and the next for all the long years preceding the birth of mortal life." Her color wavered, her density shifting as she addressed all present with a stronger hint of authority tainting her voice. "Our way has enveloped the world in peace before, but this time, it will last—the Ivalician Alliance will gather all peoples under one law, and the life-giving breath of harmony will wash away this struggle's stain."

"You're delusional."

A quick moment of mild shock passed over them as each realized that Vaan had spoken the words, his voice a firm scoff and his expression confident and challenging. Taken aback by the boy's audacity, Venat seemed to jolt subtly, her visage fading in and out of sight as wisps of smoke swirled about her amorphous body.

Basch mirrored Vaan's resolve, speaking evenly and leveling a gaze of defiance on the creature. "We know our own limits better than you know our potential. You would do well to stop meddling."

"What insolence is this?" Venat growled, eyes burning an enraged orange.

Briefly, while her bodyguards taunted Venat, Ashe peered over her shoulder. Lamont remained kneeling beside Penelo, his eyes focused on the scuffed floor before him, unwilling to look at Vayne's drained corpse, and Gabranth had ventured to lay a hand on his shoulder, which assured Ashe that he would manage without her support for the moment. Now, turning to the Occurian with renewed confidence, she spoke boldly: "Idealism fuels war far better than hatred—even we mortals know that."

"You haven't even the capacity to consider true unity," Venat sneered. "You will not recognize it until it is achieved."

Balthier nearly rolled his eyes. "Haven't you paid any attention in all these endless years you've been studying us?" he asked cockily. "Only a great fool would think humanity truly capable of such infantile nonsense as world peace. Well, in our current state, that is." Venat spun to face him, alight with indignation, brimming with reflective smog, but the pirate continued on undaunted. "You didn't even know we were capable of understanding that much, did you? You thought we'd be easy targets—figured you'd better hurry and beat Gerun to us."

"I rushed to earn your trust for your own good," the creature insisted, subduing her tone and floating a bit higher. "To grant you the weapons you would need to protect yourselves in war with my kind. Gerun and all your other Occurian despots are long past, bound to the Sun Cryst and rent asunder with it. By ridding this world of their ill-schemed reign, I have freed you from the tyranny of the gods and given you control over your own fates." She advanced slightly, a tail of shimmering blue-hued Mist trailing behind her. "Why not accept this gift on behalf of your long-oppressed species? Why rebel against me, and deny the liberation I offer?"

"You've got quite a talent for sugar-coating things, don't you?" Balthier replied. "You haven't liberated us—you've eliminated the competition and made yourself the only power behind the throne of a corrupt empire. I doubt you could possibly care less which human you set on that throne, so long as it's one who will act on your perverse counsel."

Venat seemed to morph suddenly, vanishing into darkness and appearing in the same instant several paces from her original position. Balthier stumbled back slightly as she materialized before him, cornering him closely against a wall, releasing a plume of rich purple haze that dimmed the entire chamber.

"You dare to slander the gods who have created and sustained you?" she flared. "Ignorance must be expected of your wretched breed, but sedition I will not permit!"

The others advanced, blades readied, but Balthier seemed impervious, countering with his usual resentment. "Drop the sham! You're no more gods than any of us—you're not even immortal."

"Balthier…" Ashe said warily.

Venat heaved upward once more, glowering down on him. "Witless knaves such as you cannot hope to fathom my motives. Our reasoning is beyond your narrow scope of understanding."

"We should just sit back and trust that you're doing what's best for us?" he scoffed.

"Mind yourself…" she hissed.

He studied her for a moment, unimpressed by her display of Mist and illusion, yet intrigued by her façade of godliness—her own misguided defense of her own erroneous grandeur. "What exactly are you so afraid of?" he asked, his tone bordering on admonishment. "We can kill you more easily than you can kill us, can't we? It's those damned rocks—they're a part of you. Gerun was bound to the Sun Cryst, and you're bound to Cid's little abomination."

"Silence, mortal!" A subtle red tint began to rise in Venat's polished body, strengthening in vividness as it forced back the dark plum that usually punctuated her image.

Balthier refused to relent, instead tossing his head subtly in the way a stag displays his rack when faced with challengers. "That's why you helped him create it," he insisted, a small smirk of triumph adding clout to his words. "It was the only way you could wipe out the rest of your kind without going down with them. Did you really think that would make you a god? You're a slave to the work of humans—we can destroy you the same way we destroyed the rest of your miserable species."

The flush of crimson intensified as a mocking laugh shuddered through the room, Venat fluttering threatening at the edges and mirroring his taunting tone. "Do not place such faith in your derisory powers of assumption! Raithwall's treasonous blade was the only power in existence that could rend nethicite from this world, and it has met its own destruction in fulfilling its purpose. I gave you nethicite to free you, but if you will dare to use it without my counsel, it will surely raze your poor, primitive culture of egocentricity into utter obliteration."

As she spoke, she nudged forward just barely enough to garner notice, but Ashe had tolerated enough and swung her sword—Azelas's sword—through the creature's filmy body. It did no damage, as Ashe had suspected, but it drew the creature's attention from Balthier to her. "Stay away from him!"

The same elusive laughter resounded in her direction as the livid eyes settled on her. "Ah," Venat jeered, "irrational to the end."

Ashe returned the smug glare. "If you are truly a god and we are truly so contemptible, then perhaps you should have created us more to your liking."

"What would you do, Princess?" she pressed, floating slowing toward her as she backed away. "What strike would you think to make against me? You might hunt down and destroy our manufactured nethicite, but our factories produce ever more and more of it by the day."

Basch and Vaan closed in around the princess, Fran joining them and Balthier circling around the creature's side. The group reached a standstill near the center of the metal chamber, but Ashe refused to fall for another bluff offered up by a being that sought only to control her species. Reviewing all she had witnessed of late and drawing Gerun's sword with one hand while sheathing Azelas's with the other, she met Venat's eyes with bare inquiry.

"…This sword…"

Venat flickered, her smoky frame flapping aquatically as she interjected. "You have forsaken the assistance Gerun offered you. That sword is powerless against me."

"It was forged by your own kind…" Ashe glanced down at the shimmering blade, the light of realization illuminating the blue in her eyes. "I'll turn it on the stones that preserve your life. You said I could destroy manufactured nethicite, didn't you?"

"The only tool that ever held the power to destroy nethicite has perished—"

"It destroyed deifacted nethicite."

The determination in the princess's voice struck them all, Penelo rising to her feet and Balthier once again daring to address Venat:

"It cut the fake stuff in half."

Penelo stepped forward, wanting to approach her princess's side, but unwilling to leave Monty's. Her trembling hand fished in her pocket, pulling out the small shard of artificial nethicite while she asked tepidly, "…It did what the other one was supposed to do?"

Venat responded with a flurry of color, but Balthier spoke before she could. "The artificial nethicite must have mutated somehow in the fusing process—reversed itself. Naturally, the swords have the opposite affect."

"You jump to nonsensical conclusions!" the creature shouted.

"You're scared," Ashe replied.

Vaan turned to his sister. "Penelo, hurry!"

The skittering of stone against steel answered him, for Penelo had already sent the nethicite sliding across the floor toward Ashe. The princess stepped forward to intercept it, raising her Occurian blade high, and Venat lunged for the tiny dark stone as it halted against Ashe's boot. The sword fell with a piercing ring, Ashe lurching forward with the stroke as she drew her foot back to safety, and at once Venat reeled back, thrown down by some unseen force, her murky body crumpling into a ball as it soared back and then flattening wide as it struck the floor. The force of the blow reverberated throughout the chamber like a clap of thunder.

The stone crackled and sparked, a blinding sphere of light erupting from the fissure rent through it by the sword, and they all drew back, eyes tightly shut, as roiling Mist filled the room, blowing past them fiercely and then dissolving into the air like steam. The lamps that illuminated the room died abruptly, the ship pitching with a moan of lost energy, but soon enough the back-up generators activated, and a wash of dim light returned as the airstation stabilized itself. Moisture coated every surface, everyone present dripping and damp, but even this dried before their eyes, a hiss of evaporation accompanying the sensation. A ghastly black smear of soot scorched the floor where the minuscule stone had met its end, grim proof that the blade meant to cut deifacted nethicite could indeed destroy manufactured nethicite.

Their job remained yet unfinished, however, for Venat stumbled forward, rising sluggishly from the floor, unable to hover to her usual height, pulling her formless tail along the metal panels behind her. Colors fluctuated throughout her body, a gamut of shades shifting and undulating, and she seemed to say something, but it came out vague and inhuman. Streams of smoke curled below and before her like limbs that dragged her forward. Her eyes dimly faded in and out of view, one bright while the other went dark, alternating use.

Ashe looked to Balthier urgently. "Are you sure about this?"

He shook his head. "Not in the least."

"That was only half of it!" Penelo injected. "We have to get rid of the whole thing!"

All eyes immediately fell on Lamont, who had risen to his feet amid the chaos and now held the shard in question, eyes trained on Venat as she sagged raggedly toward him.

"…Lamont, please…" Her voice wavered in search of its lost strength—in search of the calmness with which she so easily gained the trust of humans. "…You are Emperor now…Think not of your power, but of your duty—you are a servant to your throne…" His eyes seemed darker, cold and severe, but he said nothing as she struggled onward. "The means to deliver your homeland from danger and preserve its greatness lie within your reach…safety for your people, prosperity for mankind, peace for all of Ivalice…this is all you want, is it not?"

He tossed the little green piece of nethicite on the floor, where it bounced four or five times, tumbling to a halt in front of Ashe. "I want my brother back."

The sword fell with a resounding thunder of finality, and a hail of sparks splashed up and out, followed by a blinding wave of pungent Mist that once again soaked the room. The lights died once more as the remains of the artificial nethicite sizzled and dissolved, and a catastrophic groan of machinery sounded as the ship lurched, dropping abruptly from the sky for a few terrifying moments before its diminutive magicite engines powered up, keeping it at a precarious hover. All aboard fell to their hands and knees, and the lights returned to barely a quarter of their usual function, dim and flickering, stretching not even to the corners of the drab chamber.

However, illumination came to them in the form of Venat's death throes, rainbows of colors assaulting their eyes, flailing wisps of glossy smoke twisting, elongating, reaching for any source of stability. Her lacquered form skewed and frayed at the edges, distorting like a thin patch of cloth pulled in every direction, and with a piercing screech of outrage, the Occurian rolled into a ball of black Mist and finally fizzled into oblivion, utterly extinguished.

The ship's frantic rocking made it difficult for them to gain and keep steady footing, but Ashelia's cortege managed to stand, their shock falling behind their realization that they hadn't much time to escape.

"Well, that was a good idea," Balthier groaned, rising uneasily and dusting himself off.

Vaan stumbled slightly as a tremor shook across the floor, rattling the lamps and making them sputter amid minute bouts of darkness. "How long have you known the sword could do that?"

"Oh, five minutes."

"I don't suppose we could discuss it later?" Basch injected.

"Right," said Balthier. "The _Strahl_ will be happy to see us."

The _Bahamut_ seemed to keep aloft fairly well, but it now appeared unquestionably evident that the great airstation was going down fast—alarms sounded an order of evacuation, and the pounding of panicked footsteps rumbled in the corridors. While her pirates and bodyguards made for the door, Ashe turned to Penelo, who lingered at the center of the room, watching Monty with a fragile and insecure countenance that Ashe hoped did not mirror her own. Eyes empty and boots soaked in blood, the boy remained on one knee beside his brother's body, Gabranth kneeling next to him attentively, silent and bleeding. Ashe neared Penelo's side, leaving the others staring at her pressingly from the door, and tried to speak. She didn't know what to say, and had hoped that words might just flow from her mouth if she opened it, but she received no such luck, standing dumbly, closing her mouth once more and clenching her teeth in dismay. Thankfully, Gabranth took note of the grave hush and placed a hand on Monty's shoulder.

"Monty…We have to get out of here."

"I'm no better than him…"

The Judge gently pulled Lamont to his feet and turned to walk at his side, but found that his legs had unexpectedly weakened. His first step was as normal, but on his second he seemed to nearly collapse, gripping the boy's shoulder by instinct, but finding his strength before putting weight on him. Monty moved to brace him, but drew back when he noticed the streak of blood trickling thickly down his side, and, seeing the child's lower lip begin to tremble as he searched for words, Gabranth stood tall, ignoring the pang of heat that surged through his body, and said in his calmest voice, "…Don't worry. It's just a scratch."


	39. Chapter 38

Craptacular epilogue soon to come.

_XXXVIII._

A thin veil of Mist shrouded the _Bahamut_, blurring the remaining sunlight and shorting out the _Strahl's_ entry hatch. Vaan ran at Balthier's side, helping him pry the door open as Fran checked various components of the ship's exterior, but only as the metal panels unlocked did he notice Basch's absence. Turning and scanning the haze, he saw his sister rush past, accompanied by the new emperor and queen—all ushered on by Balthier and Fran—but just as he made to notify them of their missing counterparts, the two Landisians emerged from the airstation, Gabranth stumbling and Basch dragging him onward. As the pirates followed the others into the ship, Vaan dashed across the platform and ducked under Gabranth's arm, lifting his weight onto his shoulders while Basch steadied him from the other side.

"The princess will have your head if you slow us down," he said.

And the Judge, head tilted, replied in a tone of dazed surprise, "She's welcome to it."

"Just hurry up," Basch added.

Vaan tried to lighten his expression, but shock had overcome the urgency of the situation, and he could not hide it easily. This was his brother's murderer he helped to safety—this was a man whom less than a month ago he relished the thought of killing. He could not fathom what had changed, but he rather liked the way it felt.

Gabranth, too, found himself startled in to silent confusion—one of his aids the subject of a king he had murdered, and the other the man he had framed for it—but he could sense no reason to protest, nor find the words to come up with one, and so he focused on moving his feet. Monty appeared at the _Strahl's_ hatch, the princess behind him, and they ushered the three men inward, frantic, but hiding it well. Looking to him with wide, weary eyes, Lamont reminded him that he yet had a job to do—the battle still raged outside, and his charge remained unarmed, having left his father's sword beside its final victim.

"He needs to lie down," Basch told Ashe.

"Like hell I do," Gabranth told Basch.

Ashe started forward. "Come on. In the cabin."

"I'm fine," Gabranth groaned.

Basch shoved him along, expression deadpan and voice a disinterested growl. "Shut up."

Penelo called to Vaan from the cockpit, and Monty quickly took his place at the Judge's side. Sparing one more look to ensure that Basch and Lamont could manage on their own, he quickly disappeared down the hall, but the panicked voices that met him caught Basch's attention, prompting him to look to the princess once more.

"Why aren't we flying?"

She shook her head. "I'll go put a knife to someone's throat." But as she neared the door to the cockpit, she slowed, halted, turned. "Gabranth?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes and noticing for the first time that he had mistakenly believed all this time that they were grey—they appeared quite blue now.

"…I just…" She gestured helplessly. "Thank you—for back there."

And he cocked his head in his usual puppy-like manner, and answered quietly. "…It was entirely my pleasure."

A nod and she was gone, the door swinging behind her, and Basch and Monty forced him down onto the nearest cot despite his remonstration. Neither seemed too worried about the civil war that could easily erupt when news of the day's events reached Archades, nor did they care that the most powerful country in Ivalice now claimed an almost-eleven-year-old as its ruler. Gabranth knew that he would need to rest eventually, but for now he removed his helmet and fought to remain upright, flinching slightly when—amid his orders and reprimands—Basch called him Noah, a name which he no longer deserved.

"Quit being such a baby!" Basch ordered.

"I'm three minutes older than you!"

"Just shut up and lie down!"

"I don't need to—Oh…" A sudden bout of dizziness fogged his vision, and he fell back with a dull clank. The helmet dropped to the floor.

In the cockpit, Ashe found her four remaining comrades working in a frenzy at the controls, tossing questions back and forth with such vigor that none even noticed her entrance. "Can we fly?" she asked.

"That damn nethicite's jammed the engines," Balthier answered, standing and walking towards her while looking back over his shoulder. "Vaan, you're in charge."

"What!" he exclaimed.

"I'm checking the engine room. Fran?"

She swiftly strode after him. "Right."

Before they could make their exit, however, a rattling thump shook the platform on which the _Strahl_ sat docked, prompting both pirates to spin and face the controls while the Dalmascans steadied themselves against chairs and walls.

"Look!" Penelo called, leaning forward to peer through the ship's front window. "The _Bahamut's_ engines are failing, too."

Fran looked to Balthier and spoke in Vieran: "I can handle it."

"What?" he replied in the same language. "You think I'm letting you steal the show?"

"You've got something to live for now."

"Nonsense. It's my fifty years against your three hundred. I'm going."

She swallowed a sigh. "You're too human for your own good."

"Vaan!" Balthier turned back to the group at the front of the cockpit as Fran rolled her eyes and left. "As soon as the _Strahl_ starts up, you take off, understood?"

"But—"

"Don't worry. Just like I showed you."

He gestured wildly, tone frantic and helpless. "I almost crashed her!"

"All part of the learning process," Balthier mused, stepping forward and settling Penelo into the copilot's seat. "Penelo, watch for interference from the _Bahamut's _signals. The _Strahl's_ a fickle girl. You keep her working for us."

"I'll try…" she stammered.

Another rumble shook the ship, and Balthier took hold of Ashe's arm with a low-toned "come on," leading her forcefully out of the cockpit and into the utility closet off the hallway beyond.

"What are you—"

"Shhh." He put a finger to her lips to silence her, then took her face in his hands. "I don't want to be like him, alright? I don't want to leave you."

"Balthier…"

The ground shook again.

"So I need you to promise that if anything happens, you won't wait for me."

Her hands drifted to his wrists, but she could find neither the will nor the strength to take a firm hold. "What?"

"Most of all, I don't want you putting up with any more guilt. Promise me you'll be happy."

"…I promise."

"Alright, then." He quickly kissed her forehead, then seized a box of tools from the shelf above her and stepped out of the closet. "I'm holding you to it," he called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall.

On his way to the engine room, he passed briskly through the cabin, where the twins bickered incessantly, Noah insisting he was fine and Basch demanding he hold still and let him help. Monty observed the chaos silently with wide, unblinking eyes, allowing a single tear to escape. Gabranth took notice of this, however, and ceased his struggle with Basch to reach up and wipe it dry.

"No, none of that," he said huskily, voice no longer blunted by impeding metal. "You have to be strong now."

Monty gripped his hand with poorly hidden desperation. Gabranth was thankful for this, though, for his limbs had slowly begun to go numb, and he feared that he would not be able to hold even one arm in place for much longer. Basch could still be felt working at his side—fervently trying to blot the wound with no luck whatsoever—but that, too, soon slowed to a stop, and Basch hung his head in defeat.

"It's too deep," he sighed. "I can't stop the bleeding."

"What!" Monty turned to him with sheer terror in his voice, but received only an apologetic gaze in return. "You—you can't let him—"

"Monty…it's alright." Mustering his strength, Gabranth turned the boy's chin back so he could look into his eyes. "We all have to go sometime."

"But not now!"

"Shhh…You don't need me anymore. Everything will be fine."

"Gabranth…"

"I'm so proud of you."

Basch looked at the injury one more time, hoping for any sign of recovery, and then, realizing that it was indeed hopeless, took the only remaining clean linen and began to dazedly wipe the blood from his hands. "I'm sorry…You don't have long."

Noah smiled faintly and looked once more to Monty. "Will you be good while I'm gone?"

"Of course not."

"That's my boy."

Releasing his hand, Monty leaned in and wrapped his arms around the Judge's shoulders in a tight embrace, lost for words and fighting to keep his eyes dry. Noah pulled him close, but found his strength to be failing rapidly, and thus simply stroked the new emperor's hair a few times with one hand and patted his back with the other. "I don't want you to see this," he said quietly.

"Alright…" Monty whimpered, pulling back and trying to smile. "…Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Heavily, forcefully, Lamont drudged through the door and down the hall, leaving Noah to stare after him, bleeding and wheezing, feeling wholly unfit to serve him as sword or shield. The silence that settled thereafter paired with the absence of Basch's hands at his wound seemed to still the rattling atmosphere, but he could not succumb to the sorrow of deserting Monty when at heart he had always known that he wouldn't last much longer than Drace. He had only a moment to dwell on it before Basch spoke softly in Landisian:

"He's witnessed enough death for one day."

Noah gazed jadedly at the closed door and replied in the same language: "I wish he didn't admire me so…"

"Don't say that."

He let out a sigh—accompanied by a shallow rasp—and met his brother's eyes. "…Can you ever forgive me, Basch?"

Basch almost laughed. "I did a long time ago."

"…You'll tell your princess I'm sorry?"

"She understands."

A resonant shudder seized the _Strahl_ as it at last vaulted into the air, nearly knocking Basch over and sending a wince of pain across Noah's face. A couple shouts rang from the cockpit—Ashe and Penelo reacting to Vaan's piloting—but they faded as the ship steadied, and Basch regained his balance, leaning in to see what relief he could offer. The Judge would have none of it, however, and pushed him back feebly while trying to smile.

"…No, no, don't worry…I can't even feel it anymore." His arm fell limp against Basch's shoulder, and Basch took his hand carefully, feeling only the slightest squeeze in return. "I know I'm unworthy, but I need a favor."

"Anything."

"I—I need you to look after Monty." His eyes darted sheepishly toward the door as he said it. "He is as much my son as he was the emperor's…I would entrust him to no other's care."

"Of course," Basch replied with a nod. "I'll protect him with my life."

At last, Noah managed a small smile, and the tension passed smoothly from his muscles, a few plates of armor creaking with the release. "…Your words always put me at ease, Brother. Sorry to leave you so soon."

His eyes closed as he spoke, and his expression softened, and his grip on his brother's hand relaxed into stillness. Basch tilted his head to one side, eyes desperate but voice soft.

"…Noah?"

The brief commotion within the cockpit cleared as Vaan managed to get control of the _Strahl_, but he and Penelo only narrowly dodged the magicite blasts volleying between the two forces that surrounded them. The lights flickered as the ship weaved through the fray, only stabilizing when the _Strahl_ escaped the battling clusters and reached open air, but from the fringe of the conflict, a new threat became apparent: The Resistance, having seemingly defeated the hub of Archadia's onslaught, turned its cannons from the _Bahamut_ to _Alexander_.

"Oh, God," Ashe gasped, leaning over Vaan's seat for a better view. "The Resistance thinks they've got a shot."

Vaan fiddled with the controls. "The hailing signals won't go through."

"There's not enough power to run everything at once," said Penelo. "We need it all to keep in the air."

Ashe gazed out at the battle, noting that the _Bahamut_ released transparent clouds of Mist from its fizzling cannons as it sank toward the city. The silvery clouds only barely reflected dusk's light, but they had cripple the _Strahl's_ engine at close range, and she feared the little ship may yet suffer from lingering effects. "The Mist?" she asked skeptically.

"Here." Vaan pulled her arm forward to the commlink, steering the ship farther out with one hand. "You keep trying," he explained. "I'm gonna get us killed if I don't watch where I'm—"

A prompt thump interrupted him, sending Ashe falling against Penelo's seat and Penelo falling against the controls. Vaan and the princess exchanged exclamations, and Penelo shot to her feet, studying a readout on a screen behind her and reporting that they had caught the shockwave of a nearby cannon blast. Neither of her companions seemed to take notice of her injection, too busying squabbling over how best to reach safety, and in that moment she realized that Monty had entered the cockpit sometime before and now stood forlornly near the back, staring out a window. She approached him quietly, but he failed to perceive her presence until she stood right at his side.

"…Monty?"

Quickly drawing a sleeve across his eyes, he turned to look at her, forcing a brief wave of calmness over his countenance and subtly shaking his head. "I'm okay."

Penelo knelt slowly, placing her hands on his shoulders and studying him, surprised to find no trace of fresh tears—but his bravado could not mask his vulnerability, and he did not appear much comforted when she stroked his hair. He had paled quite noticeably and looked rather nauseas, and heavy bruises had begun to form around his neck, but he did not seem to take particular interest in her inspection, instead staring blankly, unfocused, into the distance.

"You did what you had to do," she told him.

"…It wasn't enough."

Seeing the doubt in his eyes, she gave him a soft kiss on the forehead and drew him into a hug, which he tentatively returned. "You'll always be my hero," she whispered.

The ship slowed near the edge of the battle, hovering at a distance while Ashe and Vaan got their bearings, and the minor relief of chaos seemed to fall heavily, prompting Lamont to nestle into Penelo's shoulder. Suddenly, the silence became ominous, and he pulled back, realizing that Ashe now studied him impassively a few paces away. Before either could speak, however, the door behind him opened with a small click, and he spun, meeting Basch's eyes urgently.

"…Is he…?"

Basch, in turn, glanced away for a moment, but forced himself to meet the boy's gaze as he spoke. "…He asked that I take his place at your side."

Now they both looked to Ashe, who fought to mask her bewilderment. Penelo had risen to her feet and Vaan had fallen silent in the pilot's seat, and she could not speak for a moment, even had she known what to say. The blaze of cannon fire outside diffused only slightly before spurring her to again consider the imminence of their situation, and her expression softened as she met the gazes of her most loyal knight and her most powerful ally, both of whom had lost all they ever had and gained all they never wanted.

She nodded faintly. "…I could not deny such a noble man his dying request."

And Monty looked to Basch with a frail smile. "Okay."

A lively and persistent beeping from the control panel broke the atmosphere, and Vaan turned to it frantically, searching the ship's status readouts for signs of damage.

"I didn't do it!" he exclaimed.

Penelo shot forward, jumping back into the copilot's seat. "It's the commlink!" she replied. "We've got our signal back!"

Monty dashed after her, halting between them and speaking with a far stronger tone than he or any of his companions expected. "Hail the _Alexander_."

"What?" asked Ashe.

"Halim's crazy if he yields before they do," he explained.

She shook her head. "Lamont, you're not obligated—"

"It's alright."

"They're answering," said Penelo.

All at once, Monty seemed the epitome of composure, but the stability of his voice finally faltered as he addressed the open frequency. "Zargabaath, I need you to call off the attack."

"Lord Lamont?" Static distorted the words, but they proved clear enough for immediate recognition. Alarms blared in the background.

"Yes," said Monty. "Vayne is dead."

"Where are you?"

"Aboard the _Strahl_, with Queen Ashelia. We've reached an agreement."

A patch of indiscernible noise answered him as the _Alexander_ took a strong hit, but Zargabaath continued on unshaken. "What kind of agreement?"

"A cease-fire. We'll go first, then she'll contact the marquis."

And then a pause, almost long enough that Lamont wondered if the transmission had gone through, but the Judge replied in a tone of measured suspicion, "…Are you sure you're safe? Is Gabranth with you?"

Monty nervously looked over his shoulder to Basch, who in turn suppressed a sigh. He would still be held responsible for the king's death—to shatter the marquis's reputation now would cause as much turmoil as ever, after all—and if he was to take his brother's place anyway, he didn't see any reason why the rest of the world should know about it. "…I'm here," he said, taking a step closer to the emperor. "It is all as he says—we have to back down first or they won't believe our intent."

Another moment's hesitation cast a pall of silence on the _Strahl_ before the answer came clear and calm. "…Very well, then—but we're keeping our shields up."

"Alright," said Monty.

The frequency closed abruptly, the light on the control panel going dim, and Ashe spoke from behind the emperor:

"Now the _Valefore_."

"Okay," Penelo answered, redirecting the transmission to the other side of the battlefield.

Vaan gripped the controls, edging the ship back a bit farther as the tide of the chaos shifted and a few ships drew too near for comfort. "What if they still won't answer?" he asked.

Ashe's countenance remained stony. "We'll get their attention one way or another."

Anxiety crept into Vaan's eyes, but he had grown accustomed enough to it by now that he knew how to bed it down to no more than a trickle of absentminded worry. Having received Zargabaath's withdraw order, a few dexterous fighter crafts whizzed by, veering wide around the perimeter of the conflict and retreating to the safety of the larger Archadian vessels. The Resistance's puzzlement became apparent, but Vaan pulled back still farther until the light on the commlink blinked a response from the _Valefore_.

"It's them!" Penelo cried, bouncing in her seat.

Ashe leaned forward. "Halim?"

The same static that had blighted their communication with the _Alexander_ buzzed faintly in the background, but the marquis' voice sounded audibly over the interference. "Ashe? Thank God you still live!"

"The Archadians are standing down," she said quickly. "We must follow suit immediately."

"Are you mad? They will take us in our weakness!"

"They will take us in our strength." Her companions each seemed to faintly startle—perhaps, she suspected, in response to such an open admission—but they remained silent, and she continued on stoutly. "Lamont has replaced Vayne as Emperor, and he has agreed to peace negotiations if the fighting stops. You know our resistance stands little chance—and Rabanastre's paling has already fallen."

Panicked shouts drifted over the commlink, but Ondore's voice remained steady. "Ashe, this is an enormous risk…"

The Archadian offensive neared the completion of its cessation, the shining ships returning to the larger vessels in a slow trickle that created obvious confusion among the Resistance ranks. Knowing it would only be a matter of time before the Resistance ships took the advantage while it was upon them, Ashelia turned to Monty for help, reading in his eyes the same desperation that she felt in hers.

"Marquis Ondore," he said, stepping closer to her, "I have every intention of granting sovereignty to Dalmasca—your battle has already been won."

"…It seems you leave me no choice." A frustrated sigh weighted his words, but the relief behind them shone through nonetheless, washing over Ashelia and her cortege. "I will rein in our offense, but our defense will remain poised."

Monty smiled weakly, appearing for a moment as though he might faint, but maintaining his composure even as he swooned with relief. "Completely understandable."

"Thank you, Halim," Ashelia added.

The ensuing silence signaled the end of the transmission, but no hush overcame the cockpit of the _Strahl_. All ships in Rabanastre's airspace had fallen into madness, the Resistance fleet panicking at the sight of their enemy massing, the Archadian fleet idling nervously, volleying beams of defensive fire and awaiting some sign of peace. Only reluctantly did the forces begin to part, the rebel ships falling back, withdrawing slowly, a group of them spanning the breadth of the Imperial fleets while the others turned their backs and retreated. Penelo reported a jolt in the system that signified the _Strahl's_ return to full power, though Mist still blanketed the _Bahamut_ where it hung sluggishly, flickering and groaning, casting a deathly shadow over the city below. Vaan guided the vessel forward a bit as the range of the action receded, but hovered idle only a small distance in even after the cannon fire came to a complete halt.

"Thank God they're listening," Basch muttered.

"Yeah," said Vaan, "but now what? That thing's not gonna last much longer." He gestured to the Bahamut. "It'll take out half the city!"

"There's no way either side will let us go back and board it," Monty replied. "And if it's running on the magicite engines, that won't do us much good anyway. They've only got enough power to land it."

Basch hesitated, looking as though he meant to say something, but instead turning his eyes from the window and searching his gathered companions. The queen had fallen into a seat behind Penelo, leaning back, slouching, one hand gripping her hair while the other hung lifelessly at her side.

Basch faced her and spoke gently. "…Princess?"

"I'm not your princess anymore, Basch," she growled.

"…Ashe?" Vaan asked. "You okay?"

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, wringing her hands. "…Fine," she said.

"…What's wrong?" asked Penelo.

"…It's over." A tear slid down her cheek, and she smiled weakly with relief. "It's over…" Childish shame quickly overcame her and she shakily covered her face with her hands, shuddering anxiously as she attempted to muffle her sobs. At long last, her struggle had ended, though she did in some small corner of her heart regret that it had ended so suddenly and so violently. But with the death of her civilian life, she now found herself able to mourn the passing of all that had created her. And to this end, she felt that her tears did not fall for the brutality of battle or the cruelty of occupation, but for the old Dalmasca, the old Archadia, the old Ivalice—for her father, for Rasler, and for Azelas. She had not expected this, and in the last two years had grown to shun it, but now, surrounded by those from whom she least expected camaraderie, she found herself powerless to stop it. All looked on in uncertain awe, shocked to see such emotion from the queen—all except Monty, of course, who stepped up to her and placed a hand tenderly on her shoulder.

Through the cockpit window, a great divide in ships could be seen. The gleaming, streamlined Archadian fleet idled in the north, and the rugged, mismatched Dalmascan resistance team gathered slowly in the south. Between these two fleets—far removed to one side—hovered the _Strahl_; below them, the smoking, sparking _Bahamut_ struggled to stay aloft, escape pods jettisoning from every crevice, dashing about dizzily like flies around a corpse.

Ashe impulsively pulled Lamont against her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his hair. He squeezed her feebly in return, and found that he could no longer stay his own tears. Vaan shook his head, catching Penelo's attention, but he said nothing, steering the ship inward, closer to the rival fleets. Penelo wiped her eyes.

The stillness didn't last long, however, for the _Alexander_ opened a channel to all ships in Rabanastre's airspace, Zargabaath's metallic voice issuing a warning that the _Bahamut_ would soon crash into the city if they did nothing to interfere. The _Valefore_ responded immediately, ordering the Archadians to keep away from the airstation and let the Resistance handle it, and by the time Ashe and Monty had regained their wits, the two forces had agreed to open fire on the _Bahamut_ in the hope of sending it adrift before it could touch down. Penelo looked to Ashe urgently, but neither spoke before a third vessel joined the open commlink—the _Bahamut_ itself, where, unbeknownst to any others, Balthier and Fran fought to override and redirect the ship's emergency power, working in darkness save for the glow of magicite and the sparking of wires.

"Hasty, aren't they?" Balthier's voice on the commlink put a flutter of confusion in the hearts of all who listened, those aboard the _Strahl_ leaning inward over the control panel as though they might somehow get closer to him. "I think it's a little early to be throwing away our lives just yet."

"Balthier?" Vaan asked.

"Ah, Vaan. Sounds like you made it out okay. The _Strahl's_ a fine little lady, eh?"

Halim and Zargabaath volleyed questions frantically, but Vaan paid them no mind. "Where the hell are you?"

"Will somebody try and talk those old fools down for me?" Balthier went on. "Just getting somewhere with these glossair rings—almost done. Don't want them ramming me before I fix them, do we?"

"Balthier." Monty trained the fear out of his tone with even greater skill than his brother. "You'll have to cut all nonessential—"

"One step ahead of you."

"But it won't be enough. You're going to crash—you know that?"

"I've survived worse."

And now Fran's voice sounded in the background, impossibly calm over the roar of sirens and crunching metal. "Rings are charging…"

"You said you were checking the engine room!" Ashelia shouted.

"It was the truth," said Balthier.

"We're coming back for you!"

"Oh, no you're not." Static blurred the transmission, but his words rang clearly through the _Strahl's_ commlink. Ashe leaned on the control panel, eyes trained intensely out the cockpit window to the lumbering ship beyond. "This thing is going down," Balthier went on, "and neither of those fleets out there will let it take their leaders with it."

"Fran," the queen pleaded, "don't let him do anything stupid…"

"Don't worry," she replied. "He's promised me fifty more years at least."

Balthier rolled his eyes, ducking beneath a collapsed sheet of steel and fiddling with the operational unit behind it. "Honestly, ladies, calm down. Have you forgotten my role in this little story? I'm the leading man! I can't just up and die. Besides—Rasler's got my back."

Ashe glared. "That's not funny, you ass!"

"He won't let me go down just yet," the pirate continued airily. "Getting rid of him is your job, remember?"

"_Our_ job! I can't do it without you!"

"Hmm…Then I guess I'll have to kidnap you again, won't I?" A sudden hum sounded from the depths of the airstation, rising in pitch as it settled into a steady throb, and shaking the _Bahamut_ from its slow descent. The ship hovered with painful effort, but did not appear able to steer itself clear just yet. "Look at that," Balthier mused. "Moving already."

"We need to cut the commlink," Fran reported in the distance.

"Vaan," said Balthier, "the _Strahl_'s in your hands. You'd better take good care of her, you hear? If there's one scratch on her when I get back…"

"I know," he replied. "We'll be waiting for you."

The queen knelt, gaze fixed on the luminous little light on the control panel before her. "Balthier…"

"Stay strong, Ashe."

The light went out. With a series of thunderous creaks, the massive vessel began to drift aside, dizzily weaving its way over the city, leaving behind a smothering trail of smoke and Mist. It lost altitude rapidly, every ounce of its dwindling power forcing it forth as it descended, and Ashelia rose to her feet as it fell to the sand, the burst of sound somehow delayed, the puffs of dust eerily graceful. Fire erupted from many of the ports, flames flickering and smoke spewing, and the towering structure collapsed upon itself before at last tumbling to its side, rolling only one rotation, sliding through the golden sand to a slow, smoldering rest.

The commlink buzzed with activity, both sides rejoicing that Rabanastre had been spared before once again sinking into wary questions of peace and surrender and nonnegotiable terms. Ashe let her uncle handle this—the day's events were his responsibility, his problem—but her gaze seemed to fall into a hollow blankness as she turned to leave, and she couldn't rejoice in her well-merited freedom, couldn't even lay her face in her hands and weep. The others knew better than to console her, and she ignored the heat of their stares as she exited the cockpit, staggering slowly down the hall to the silent chamber where her father's murderer laid lifeless in the dark.

The sky seemed stagnant, the weight of dusk overcoming the haze of battle as it settled in the desert dunes, listless and lonely, endlessly barren. Lamont and Halim numbly began the hours-long task of negotiating a complete stand-down while Basch gazed at the horizon and Vaan and Penelo kept their trembling hands on the controls as best they could. Ashe was asleep in the cabin.


	40. Epilogue

Wow. Done. Definitely a rough draft, but I had to start somewhere. (And yes, I know this epilogue is shit. As much as I would like to blame the stress of final exams, I'm pretty sure I just lost my edge at the last minute.) If you hated something, tell me so I can fix it. If you liked something, tell me so I'll leave it alone. I'll be going on hiatus for a while before I begin the second draft—or maybe I'll get antsy and just start on the next novelization. Either way, thanks for reading, and check back in a few months.

_Epilogue_

It took eight hours for a complete stand-down of both forces, though it would take even longer for Ivalice to return to what it once was. Ashe and Lamont ascended to their respective thrones and grew further and further away from their comrades, though they maintained their relationship with one another as Dalmasca's cessation proceeded and sustained goodwill meetings continued. Rabanastre recovered, as did Archadia's reputation, but nothing would ever be the same, and it would take generations to forget the violence that had shaken the world in those years.

Lamont's first months on the throne proved less daunting than they had at first seemed, as he had no shortage of allies and advisors to see him through the wreckage of his country's comeback. However, with Basch and Noah permanently switched, it became clear that Basch would die under the wrong name, and that there could never be a grave marked with his true name, so Monty had Noah buried beside Drace. Much of his reign would be unpopular domestically but respected abroad, but Basch aided him through it all, and at times the emperor nearly forgot that Noah had ever left him.

Vaan kept watch on the Strahl, travelling the world with Penelo at his side—to keep him out of trouble, no doubt. A fair amount of pirating took place, which went largely ignored by the authorities, thanks to the generosity of certain heads of state, but even this eventually bored Vaan, and it was only a few years before Ashelia inducted him into the Order of Dalmascan Knights.

This relieved Penelo at first, as she no longer felt the need to keep such a watchful eye on her brother, but she lost her taste for globetrotting without Vaan, and soon found herself restless, missing Monty while she lived in Rabanastre and missing Vaan while she visited Archades. She and Monty exchanged letters almost weekly for six years before finally getting married, allowing her the privilege of far more frequent trips between the two cities. Their children would know Basch as their uncle, as would Ashelia's.

And as for Ashelia, she oversaw the restoration of Dalmasca for an entire year before being coronated, much to the joy of her people. Migelo hosted the fete, of course. However, once she officially took the throne, the bids for her hand in marriage began to pour in—Emperor Margrace offering her her choice of his sons, Marquis Ondore looking to match her with various former Resistance members, the people of Landis hoping to make an ally, the people of Nabradia eagerly encouraging her to take her second husband from among the ranks of her first, the people of Dalmasca seeking independence through a pure-blooded marriage, and the people of Archadia absolutely zealous in their attempts at setting her up with poor, exasperated Monty.

Amid the gossip and rumors stood Vaan and Penelo, well on their way to becoming skypirates of surpassing notoriety themselves. One sunny day they entered the aerodome with the hopes of pillaging the newly rebuilt Nabudis, only to find that the _Strahl_ had been stolen right out from under them. That very night, the queen was kidnapped, and a month later Dalmasca received a new king. "Rasler" had been left deep within Raithwall's tomb, atop the pedestal that once held the Midlight Shard, and upon exiting the tomb, Balthier had quite plainly stated that Ashe would be in need of a new ring, casually slipping one on her finger as he said so, but it had been her idea to elope that very day, free of the public pomp that had smothered her first wedding.

Fran quickly earned the title of "Pirate Queen" among the inhabitants of Balfonheim, and maintained a steady and mutually beneficial relationship with Lamont and his successors until at last returning to Eruyt. From that point on, increasing numbers of Viera ventured out of the Golmore Jungle. Balthier gave her fifty years and then some, and though for the most part he settled into royal life, he often took the _Strahl_ out for uproarious joyrides with Vaan and occasionally Penelo, and continued to kidnap Ashe at his own leisure, not that she ever minded.

But peace settled over Ivalice eventually, and the world no longer had need for heroes, and thus the heroes took the rest they had earned. The distance between them grew greater as time and necessity dictated, but the public was still awed in the rare instances when the king took a holiday to the infamous port of Balfonheim, or the empress went running through Rabanastre's slums with a royal knight, or when, at formal events, the queen would occasionally dance with the emperor's bodyguard. And once in a while, their lives would again converge over some innocuous matter, and after the diplomats had retired to their rooms or the party guests had stumbled drunkenly back home, the group would gather and recount old times, and although living the tales had tried them terribly, telling of them years later brought only the affection of shared laughter.


End file.
